To an Astronomer

Anne Lynch Botta

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.