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 



