They pitied Caroline Herschel,
marked by typhus,
but while other girls picked goose bones,
dreamed of kissing-boughs,
she was in the garden
with a 2.2 Newtonian Telescope
pointing at the northern part of Monoceros
on the midpoint of a line
from Procyon to Betelgeuse,
where the ionised hydrogen forms
a haze of stars
that emerge from leaves of sky
like pearls.
When they wondered if she might
be tempted inside
for pudding, some society,
she demurred,
preferring instead
to watch the birth of light.
Poem
Caroline Herschel’s Christmas
Hugh McMillan