Tycho Brahe writes to his wife

You would grow in my eye with the distance and squared,
seven paces away you would fill up the sky,
a phantasma of lights, breathing cosmos as air.
Breathe me gently to sleep where I spin, passing by.

Seven seconds from here you'd be written in runes
on a wind weathered cliff, facing north for the shade.
An enigma for scholars and dreamers and loons,
spinning silk by your words, ancient song in a braid.

You would grow with the distance and squared in my eye,
you'd be fabric of saga before I lost sight.
Every heavenly shape, every sphere must comply,
as you anchor me here, facing stars, blessed by light.