He carries the paper in his old knarled hand.
He looks to the sky, and then to the band,
He listens to the music, and then to the stars;
He confronts the concerto, and forgets about Mars.
The moon beams down into his pensive face;
She looks all about her, and quickens her pace.
She sinks, the sun rises: the old man is still there;
But the players have long since left his motionless stare.