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 sigh Seemed 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 given From the silent depths of heaven; Fire is born of earth!