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Poem	To me at night the stars are vocal. They say: 'Your planet's oh so local! A speck of dust in heaven's ceiling; Your faith divine a foolish feeling. What odds if you are chaos hurled, Yours is a silly little world.' For their derision, haply true, I hate the stars, as wouldn't you? But whether earth be great or little, I do not care a fishwife's spittle; I do not fret its where or why,-- Today's a day and I am I. Serene, afar from woe and worry I tend my vines and do not hurry. I buss the lass and tip the bottle, Fill up the glass and rinse my throttle. Tomorrow though the earth should perish, The lust of life today I cherish. Ah no, the stars I will not curse: Though things are bad they might be worse. So when vast constellations shine I drink to them in ruby wine; For they themselves,--although it odd is, Somehow give me a sense that God is. Because we trust and realise His love he steers us in the skies. For faith however foolish can Be mighty helpful to a man: And as I tend my vines so He With tenderness looks after me.
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