Xvii

To a Moth

Spirit of evil, heavily flying, turning, Dropping to earth, Caught to the light, with brown wings torn and burning, Whence was your birth?

Was there a cause that, ceaselessly turning, flying, Drew you from night? All that we know is this--the aimless dying, Killed by the light.

Evil the star that led you, spirit of evil, Out of your dark, Breeding desire that conquers us, man and devil-- Passion's red spark.