Here is the starry night you saw at 4 am
          from St Paul's cell
— you looked for Venus but found love
          upon the cobalt and amethyst sky
while olive trees and rolling waves of hills
          cradled Saint Remy.

In foreground, that green cypress,
          like dark fire of death,
provides pathway from earth to sky's
          eternal happiness.
Here hangs a gibbous turned to crescent moon,
          a moon that becomes the almost sun —
this sky map filled
          with yellow-red-orange stars
          of Northern Cross.

Around Joseph's eleven stars,
          the clouds gather their own light —
above cold powder blue of pale church
          with heaven piercing spire.
Aurora dance begins —
          yellow green blue
          from storms upon the sun.
Those angelic curtains of the North
          complete this Whitman world,
              this floating hydrobath of Arles,
                  this ukiyo-e of swirling nebula.

And I, Vincent, will ask,
          "Will it take death that I may live,
          that we may live again
          on those celestial orbs
          upon this starry night?"