And the nebula of colours twisted
Spake to the star whom for her love listed,
And with logic sensibly insisted
That the pow’r of our love they could ne’er match.
It’d be impossible as to catch
A shooting star as love as we two do;
Theirs would die when existence desisted.
The red giant took this not as offense,
For love’s been reputed to make all dense,
And there are some it’s e’en made go insane.
She laughed as a child and questioned again,
For one should e’er question the depths of love,
Even should one live in the stars above.
Such coquettish makes it a pleasant brew.