Poems (Terry, 1861)/The desire of the moth
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH.
Golden-colored miller, Leave the lamp, and fly away!In that flame so brightly gleaming,Sure, though smiling, death is beaming; Hasten to thy play!
Nearer? foolish miller! Look! thy tiny wings will burn.Just escaped,—but soon 'twill reach thee;Ah! can dying only teach thee Truths thou wilt not learn?
Didst thou whisper, miller? Something like a voice and sighSeemed to say,—"in all thy teaching,Is there practice, or but preaching; Doest thou more than I?"
Wisest little miller! I indeed have hung too long Round a flame more wildly burning,And, with heart too fond and yearning, Heard no charmer's song.
Blinder than a miller Hovering with devoted gaze,Where such visions vain I cherish,Either they or I must perish, Like that flickering blaze.
But the moonlight, miller, Better far befits our mirth;That calm, streaming light is givenFrom the silent depths of heaven; Fire is born of earth!