On reading of their distance and their size,
Of countless years that they have rushed about,
And of the speeds at which they move, one tries
To fit hard fact to what his senses shout.
For, shower-freshened by the touch of May,
They hang just out of reach above the trees
And laugh at science in their gentle way
For such cold truth on such wann friends as these!
by Ray Romine Monday, November 17, 1952
