The Cold Meteorite Poem by William Reed Huntington

WHILE through our air thy kindling course was run
A momentary glory filled the night;
The envious stars shone fainter, for thy light
Garnered the wealth of all their fires in one.
Ah, short-lived splendor! journey ill-begun!
Half-buried in the Earth that broke thy flight,
No longer in thy broidered raiment dight,
Here liest thou dishonored, cold, undone.
'Nay, critic mine, far better 't is to die
'The death that flashes gladness, than alone,
'In frigid dignity, to live on high;
'Better in burning sacrifice be thrown
'Against the world to perish, than the sky
'To circle endlessly a barren stone.'