Stars

There is no oversight of human affairs.
HOW countlessly they congregate 
O'er our tumultuous snow, 
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees 
When wintry winds do blow!— 

As if with keenness for our fate, 
Our faltering few steps on 
To white rest, and a place of rest 
Invisible at dawn,— 

And yet with neither love nor hate, 
Those stars like some snow-white 
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes 
Without the gift of sight.