Robert Browning wrote My Star to his celestial love, the crystalline shining beauty that was his fragile wife living with him in Florence, Italy: Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It was published nine years after their marriage in 1846, and only six before this lady poet left him in tragic finality like a fading star.
All that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs
They must solace themselves with the
Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore
I love it.