A flitting moth, o’er drenched and drowsy bloom.
Sees the faint radiance from thy spirit’s room
And to that distant hope directs her flight.
Thus, in forlornest need and longing-plight,
The lost bee flies to die in golden broom;
Thus hies the insect to the spider’s loom,
That dew-decked peril, flashing in the light.
What wilt thou do? Thy splendor softly shade
That flies may quiver round it unafraid?
Or burn and dazzle, till the wings that soar,