Prognostication

Most rigorous astrology can hardly divine Why flamy galactic orbs often burning fall; Or the calm pull behind shiniest meteorites' Hurtling lower from their neat nestlings tall. I own that apt eyes as of the lauded Magi may From starry ciphers tap signs of a coming day; Yet no tiny mass among the fiery marvels high, Can answer when first they graced the idle sky. While I'd rate their near-syzygies tolerably rare, I know ethereal balls as bereft of all oral strain. All sheen but full non-awareness of birth-date, Ought to render these speechless vapors vain. What telescoped forms of dumb orbitings mute Might imbue with insight in placid images cute Any salient squinter into thick lens herebelow, Where tiptop harps and strung wonders bore? Astrologers and their crafty stars will sweat to tell, Where and when their augury-warped instincts fell.