THE MOTH-SIGNAL

“What are you still, still thinking,”

He asked in vague surmise,

“That stare at the wick unblinking

With those great lost luminous eyes?”

“O, I see a poor moth burning

In the candle-flame,” said she,

Its wings and legs are turning

To a cinder rapidly.”

“Moths fly in from the heather,”

He said, “now the days decline.”

“I know,” said she. “The weather,

I hope, will at last be fine.

“I think,” she added lightly,

“I'll look out at the door.

The ring the moon wears nightly

May be visible now no more.”

She rose, and, little heeding,

Her husband then went on

With his attentive reading

In the annals of ages gone.

Outside the house a figure

Came from the tumulus near,

And speedily waxed bigger,

And clasped and called her Dear.

“I saw the pale-winged token

You sent through the crack,” sighed she.

“That moth is burnt and broken

With which you lured out me.

“And were I as the moth is

It might be better far

For one whose marriage troth is

Shattered as potsherds are!”

Then grinned the Ancient Briton

From the tumulus treed with pine:

“So, hearts are thwartly smitten

In these days as in mine!”