They’re beautiful, just to be as they are,

for beauty knows nothing if not the stars

to light the night above these snow-brushed fields

as I look up with my prayer that yields

gold as if this dream is earth, and as if birth

is the dream of life that we rehearse

before the heavens open like a bright stage.

And all these young thoughts in my old age

seem to me as wise as the sky

which, being eternal, is free to die

like the hero when the final act is done,

waiting for the applause of the moved sun

as dawn welcomes our souls to a new day.

And these stars, these dreams, they have led the way.