My love is not of this place,
she is coming to me from outer space;
we would shame Mercury's fire with our love,
and gallop across Venus from dawn to dusk.
The Earth would not hold us firmly to it,
the plains of Mars must feel our feet
till Orion and Andromeda gaze in starry wonder,
and marvel at such a love as ours.
We would soar, aloft, borne on the Sun's light
and relish all of Jupiter's pride,
on the rings of Saturn, we would mount our nest
and drift awhile, to a blissful rest.
Uranus shall rejoice at our approach
and beg of us to make him our home
but love has no abode save in the hearts of men,
no cosmic sphere can be its den.
For aeons on end, our love shall bloom,
and swell the fortunes of a thousand moons
we would be the envy of stars and comets,
Neptune shall bow and call us blessed.
I will drown myself in this celestial praise
and kiss her feet at Pluto's gate. . .
O, my love is not of this place,
she is coming to me from outer space!
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