As A Confirmed Astronomer I'm

We Love The Things We Love For What They Are.

The Only Certain Freedom's In Departure.

No, In Country Money, The Country Scale Of Gain, The Requisite Lift Of Spirit Has Never Been Found.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.

We Ran As If To Meet The Moon.