The Moth-Signal
“What are you still, still thinking,”He asked in vague surmise,“That stare at the wick unblinkingWith those great lost luminous eyes?”
“O, I see a poor moth burningIn the candle-flame,” said she,“Its wings and legs are turningTo 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 nightlyMay be visible now no more.”
She rose, and, little heeding,Her husband then went onWith his attentive readingIn the annals of ages gone.
Outside the house a figureCame from the tumulus near,And speedily waxed bigger,And clasped and called her Dear.
“I saw the pale-winged tokenYou sent through the crack,” sighed she.“That moth is burnt and brokenWith which you lured out me.
“And were I as the moth isIt might be better farFor one whose marriage troth isShattered as potsherds are!”
Then grinned the Ancient BritonFrom the tumulus treed with pine:“So, hearts are thwartly smittenIn these days as in mine!”
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