Classic Poem

A baby looks up at the moon,
And cries,
Because he cannot grasp
The big, silver balloon,
Tangled in the twisted branches
Of tall trees.
To dreaming lovers,
Drifting down languorous, limpid lakes,
The moon is a white-flamed rose
Of romance,
Whose soft, shimmering petals
Flutter witchingly
Over the waters.
But the apathetic astronomer
Gazes through a long, black telescope,
And sees only a bleak, barren sphere,
Wheeling mathematically
Through charted space!