O Star, dear Star, lean silence on my breast,
While all the wine-dark heav’ns do hold their breath;
The jasmine sighs; warm earth doth sink to rest,
And moths, like prayers, beat softly after death;
One piercing Star doth seam the night’s thin veil,
And there my guarded silence waxeth frail.

I speak to thee as sailors do to fire,
Low-voic’d, lest wind should steal the holy word;
Thou art my North, my hunger, my desire,
The salt of blood, my psalmèd singing bird;
Star, pierce me through, till day hath stripp’d the night,
And bind my broken dark, and make it light.

-- Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

A short format poem I am playing with, again for Star.