MOTHS

When I lay wakeful yesternight

My fever's flame was a clear light,

A taper, flaring in the wind,

Whither, fluttering out of the dim

Night, many dreams glimmered by.

Like moths, out of the darkness, blind,

Hurling at that taper's flame,

From drinking honey of the night's flowers

Into my circled light they came:

So near I could see their soft colours,

Grey of the dove, most soothely grey;

But my heat singed their wings, and away

Darting into the dark again,

They escaped me....

Others floated down

Like those vaned seeds that fall

In autumn from the sycamore's crown

When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred,

More silent in flight than any bird,

Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, soft

As lizards moving on a white wall

They came quietly from aloft

Down through my circle of light, and so

Into unlighted gloom below.

But one dream, strong-winged, daring

Flew beating at the heart of the flame

Till I feared it would have put out my light,

My thin taper, fitfully flaring,

And that I should be left alone in the night

With no more dreams for my delight.

Can it be that from the dead

Even their dreams, their dreams are fled?