All mortal things to sleep are given.
But see! a wandering night-moth enters,
Allured by taper gleaming bright;
A while keeps hovering round, then ventures
On Goethe’s mystic page to light.
With awe she views the candle blazing
A universe of fire it seems
To moth-savante with rapture gazing,
Or fount whence life and motion streams.
What passions in her small heart whirling,