And Yet... Poems

Thank you Eileen Thalenberg for "And Yet". For taking my left-dominant brain on a glorious journey, into the depth and breadth of the memories, experiences and wisdom you have gathered in your own life journeys. Your every line glows like a star in a gleaming galaxy, miniaturized to the life-dominant dimensions of an exquisite watch. Your every word turns, suspended as though between between jewels, in perfect harmony with its companions, in shared revelatory purpose.
But, one caveat. In "Long Ago" you write:
"Today we no longer believe the stories the night skies once told"
Believe? Maybe not, but we tell them still and love them yet!
and "Nor have we invented new ones."
Thus Keats when (inspired by Newton) he wrote:
"Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—Unweave a rainbow"
and Whitman, who "tired and sick", when he "heard the learn'd astronomer" (clearly a dismal teacher) and preferred, to his "proofs", "figures", "charts and diagrams" , to "wander off by myself" "in the mystical night-air" to "Look up in perfect silence to the stars".
What might those poets have written, if they had lived long enough to inhabit the universe we know , a universe populated with wonders that were unimaginable then. Where they lived beneath a firmament of mystery that blazed with stars and streaked with comets, we live in a universe blotted out by city lights, blinded by Elon Musk's StarLink that is invisible to the unaided eyes of most of us, a universe that was, we are told, in theories born in imagination long before they were confirmed by observation, born out of the void in a cosmic "big bang" that spawned white stars, red stars, brown stars, x-ray stars, neutron stars, colliding galaxies with all-swallowing black holes at the heart of them and a myriad other mysteries, a universe in which far away planets orbit stars light years from our sun, planets that might support life, alien - or similar? - to our own. So many wonders, partly revealed, still barely imaginagable in their mystery, beauty and terror.
You conclude "Long Ago" with "you and I could not imagine ourselves into the stars". I? Probably not. But you? Surely, as you have in the poetry of "And Yet", brilliantly!