The Philosopher And The Stars

A long pause, during which EMPEDOCLES remains motionless, plunged in thought. The night deepens. He moves forward and gazes round him, and proceeds:     And you, ye stars,     Who slowly begin to marshal,     As of old, in the fields of heaven,     Your distant, melancholy lines!     Have you, too, survived yourselves?     Are you, too, what I fear to become?     You, too, once lived!     You too moved joyfully     Among august companions     In an older world, peopled by Gods,     In a mightier order,     The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven     But now, you kindle     Your lonely, cold-shining lights,     Unwilling lingerers     In the heavenly wilderness,     For a younger, ignoble world;     And renew, by necessity,     Night after night your courses,     In echoing unneard silence,     Above a race you know not.     Uncaring and undelighted.     Without friend and without home;     Weary like us, though not     Weary with our weariness.