To an astronomer

Upon the Professor we'll waste not a glance,
Since he has no eyes for us poor terrestrials;
With his heart can we have any possible chance,
When he gives us for rivals a host of celestials?
What cares he for eyes, whether hazel or blue,
Or for any slight charms such as we share between us, --
When, his glass in his hand, he can sit the night through,
And ogle at leisure Diana and Venus.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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