I, a poor comet on high, you see,
    How windy and wild is my destiny!
        I live in constant sorrow,
        My light e'en I must borrow;
I only appear from time to time,
Then must wander away in gloom and grime.

By lady Sun I'm ever distracted,
    And to her by power magnetic attracted;
        Yet she will not endure
        That I should rise up to her,
I must long for her from flights afar,
For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.

The fixed stars all in bitter fun
    Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son.
        They say I still go tottering
        Here, there, among them pottering,
And where I once on my way have been
Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.

The planets regard me with scorn, and say
    That I always come bothering in their way.
        Dame Venus and her sisters
        Call me one of those crazy twisters,
'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.
Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'

That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp,
    And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.
        And down on earth a-squinting,
        I see the learned ones printing,
'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,
Though he should spin to all eternity.'

E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,
    Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,
        And should he write—I ask all—
        And am I such a rascal? —
'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,
With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'

But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls! —bide?
    You don't know me yet from the innermost side.
        Some day I'll catch you—curse ye?
        And make you cry for mercy?
Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope,
For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.


This poem is in the public domain.
Translated by Charles G. Leland.