To an Astrologer

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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   Nay, seer, I do not doubt thy mystic lore,
   Nor question that the tenor of my life,
   Past, present, and the future, is revealed
   There in my horoscope. I do believe
   That yon dead moon compels the haughty seas
   To ebb and flow, and that my natal star
   Stands like a stern-browed sentinel in space
   And challenges events; nor lets one grief,
   Or joy, or failure, or success, pass on
   To mar or bless my earthly lot, until
   It proves its Karmic right to come to me.

   All this I grant, but more than this I _know_!
   Before the solar systems were conceived,
   When nothing was but the unnamable,
   My spirit lived, an atom of the Cause.
   Through countless ages and in many forms
   It has existed, ere it entered in
   This human frame to serve its little day
   Upon the earth. The deathless Me of me.
   The spark from that great all-creative fire,
   Is part of that eternal source called God,
   And mightier than the universe.

         Why, he
   Who knows, and knowing, never once forgets
   The pedigree divine of his own soul,
   Can conquer, shape, and govern destiny,
   And use vast space as ’twere a board for chess
   With stars for pawns; can change his horoscope
   To suit his will; turn failure to success,
   And from preordained sorrows, harvest joy.

   There is no puny planet, sun, or moon,
   Or zodiacal sign which can control
   The God in us! If we bring _that_ to bear
   Upon events, we mould them to our wish;
   ’Tis when the infinite ’neath the finite gropes
   That men are governed by their horoscopes.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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