THE LAST WORDS OF A MOTH.
I burn—I die—I cannot fly—
Too late, and all in vain:
The glow—the light—charmed sense and sight—
Now naught is left but pain.
That wicked flame, no pencil's aim,
No pen can e'er depict on paper;
My waltz embraced that taper waist,
Till I am wasted like a taper.
Worthy the brightest hours of Greece
Was that pure fire, or so I felt it;
Its feeder towered in steadfast peace,
While I believed for me it melted.
No use in heighos! or alacks!
My cure is past the power of money;
Too sure that form of virgin wax
Retained the bee's sting with the honey.
Its eye was blue, its head was cold,
Its round neck white as lilied chalice;
In short, a thing of faultless mould,
Fit for a maiden empress' palace.
So round and round—I knew no better—
I fluttered, nearer to the heat;
Methought I saw an offered letter—
Now I but see my winding-sheet.
Some pearly drops fell, as for grief—-
Oh, sad delusion;—ah, poor Moth!
I caused them not; 'twas but a thief
Had got within to wrong us both,
Now I am left quite in the dark,
The light's gone out that caused my pain;
Let my last gaze be on that spark—
Kind breezes, blow it in again.
Then snuff it well, when once rekindled,
Whoe'er about its brilliance lingers,
But though 'twere to one flicker kindled,
Be careful, or you'll burn your fingers.
It sought not me; and though I die,
On such bright cause I'll cast no scandal—
I fled to one who could not fly—
Then blame the Moth, but not the Candle.
Ibid.