The mind, no windless waste, holds bold adventure for astronomers who restless in space, are prisoners of the infinite large. Let them attend their souls' compulsions which must spend themselves, star-lost and worlds-enwalled. But poets are more modest; they, too, take stars but melodiously, the infinite small behind the eye, and seize upon the human heart, whose moods and passions they assert in song, and not astronomy.

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