What Van Gogh watched, and wept, and dreampt with blue
and stormy eyes agape, and gazing drew;
Abroad, agleam upon his canvas white,
abound, enshrouded in that cloudless night,
the lucid stars, the mingling many rush-
a sterling rush in midnight's moonlight hush,
aloft and leaping, loosed and laced along
the ink and ceiling's brink, a threaded throng
of constellations caught and counted, kept
alive by painters, poets- those who slept
or sailed upon the shore, the sea, below
the spangled sky; O' sorrowed, sweet Van Gogh.
As once he watched, the moon half sunken sail,
I glimpse the starry, vast and gilded veil.
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