Donald P. Goodman III
I look up skyward, see the blackest depths of night, and see that it is endless, lacking any bounds, and punctuated with long-distant specks of light.
This boundless ocean all the universe surrounds, and changelessly it spins forever 'round the earth, its vastness, never failing, e'er my mind astounds.
But I have never seen it clearly since my birth; my eyes can't reach the end of such immense extent, my mind can't hold an infinite expanse of worth.
But struggling to see, I start my long ascent; down low, the air and clouds keep one from seeing clear what lies behind the blurring shrouds and discontent,
and so I seek contentment at the high frontier, and fight to penetrate the fog that clouds my sight, and see the twinkling stars as they ought to appear,
not as reflected shadows of their truer light; but can I ever leave the warm embrace of air, the sky and cloud that make the stars less clearly bright?
Can I celestial emptiness embrace and bear, a soul who's made to pull the shroud o'er face and eye which earth and atmosphere hold out for me to share?
Or will I climb forever, and yet ne'er so high that I can satisfy the lusts of greedy sight and feast my eyes on what beyond the world does lie?
I gaze up skyward, into blackest depths of night, and see that it is endless, and beyond my flight; but 'tis enough to know that all the stars so bright will spin just as they ought, as ever has been right.