Tragedy of the Night-Moth 
The sullen flame, for her scarce sparkling, 
Gives but one hiss, one fitful glare; 
Now bright and busy, now all darkling. 
She snaps and fades to empty air. 
Her bright gray form that spread so slimly, 
Some fan she seemed of pygmy Queen; 
Her silky cloak that lay so trimly, 
Her wee, wee eyes that looked so keen. 
Last moment here, now gone forever, 
To nought are passed with fiery pain; 
And ages circling round shall never 
Give to this creature shape again ! 
Poor moth ! near weeping I lament thee, 
Thy glossy form, thy instant woe; 
’Twas zeal for “things too high” that sent thee 
From cheery earth to shades below. 
Short speck of boundless Space was needed 
For home, for kingdom, world to thee ! 
Where passed unheeding as unheeded 
Thy little life from sorrow free. 
But syren hopes from out thy dwelling 
Enticed thee, bade thee earth explore— 
Thy frame, so late with rapture swelling, 
Is swept from earth forevermore ! 
Poor moth ! thy fate my own resembles. 
Me, too, a restless, asking mind 
Hath sent on far and weary rambles, 
To seek the good I ne’er shall find. 
Like thee, with common lot contented, 
With humble joys and vulgar fate, 
I might have lived and ne’er lamented, 
Moth of a larger size, a longer date ! 
But Nature’s majesty unveiling 
What seemed her wildest, grandest charms, 
Eternal Truth and Beauty hailing, 
Like thee, I rushed into her arms. 
What gained we, little moth ? Thy ashes, 
Thy one brief parting pang may show : 
And thoughts like these, for soul that dashes 
From deep to deep, are—death more slow! 
Thomas Carlyle. 
210 
