Chapter 7

by Rudyard Kipling

　　Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised

　　With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?

　　Creep thou betweene — thy coming’s all unnoised.

　　Heaven hath her high, as earth her baser, wars.

　　Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray

　　(By Adam’s, fathers’, own, sin bound alway);

　　Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say

　　Which planet mends thy threadbare fate or mars!

　　Sir John Christie[“SHRISTIE”]