GRANT ALLEN
ION the crimson clothOf my study deskA lustrous mothPoised statuesque.Of a waxen mouldWere its light limbs shaped,And in scales of goldIts body was draped:While its luminous wingsWere netted and veinedWith silvery strings,Or golden grained,Through whose filmy mazeIn tremulous flightDanced quivering raysOf the gladsome light.IIOn the desk hard byA taper burned,Towards which the eyeOf the insect turned.In its vague little mindA faint desireRose, undefined,For the beautiful fire.Lightly it spreadEach silken van;Then away it spedFor a moment's span.And a strange delightLured on its courseWith resistless mightTowards the central source:And it followed the spellThrough an eddying maze,Till it fluttered and fellIn the deadly blaze.IIIDazzled and stunnedBy the scalding pain,One moment it swooned,Then rose again;And again the fireDrew it on with its charmsTo a living pyreIn its awful arms;And now it liesOn the table hereBefore my eyesShrivelled and sere.IVAs I sit and museOn its fiery fate,What themes abstruseMight I meditate!For the pangs that thrilledThrough that martyred frameAs its veins were filledWith the scorching flame,A riddle encloseThat, living or dead,In rhyme or in prose,No seer has read."But a moth," you cry,"Is a thing so small!"Ah, yes; but whyShould it suffer at all?Why should a sobFor the vaguest smartOne moment throbThrough the tiniest heart?Why in the wholeWide universeShould a single soulFeel that primal curse?Not all the throesOf mightiest mind,Nor the heaviest woesOf human kind,Are of deeper weightIn the riddle of thingsThan that insect's fateWith the mangled wings.VBut if only IIn my simple songCould tell you the WhyOf that one little wrong,I could tell you moreThan the deepest pageOf saintliest loreOr of wisest sage.For never as yetIn its wordy strifeCould Philosophy getAt the import of life;And Theology's sawsHave still to explainThe inscrutable causeFor the being of pain.So I somehow fearThat in spite of both,We are baffled hereBy this one singed moth.
I
ON the crimson clothOf my study deskA lustrous mothPoised statuesque.Of a waxen mouldWere its light limbs shaped,And in scales of goldIts body was draped:While its luminous wingsWere netted and veinedWith silvery strings,Or golden grained,Through whose filmy mazeIn tremulous flightDanced quivering raysOf the gladsome light.IIOn the desk hard byA taper burned,Towards which the eyeOf the insect turned.In its vague little mindA faint desireRose, undefined,For the beautiful fire.Lightly it spreadEach silken van;Then away it spedFor a moment's span.And a strange delightLured on its courseWith resistless mightTowards the central source:And it followed the spellThrough an eddying maze,Till it fluttered and fellIn the deadly blaze.IIIDazzled and stunnedBy the scalding pain,One moment it swooned,Then rose again;And again the fireDrew it on with its charmsTo a living pyreIn its awful arms;And now it liesOn the table hereBefore my eyesShrivelled and sere.IVAs I sit and museOn its fiery fate,What themes abstruseMight I meditate!For the pangs that thrilledThrough that martyred frameAs its veins were filledWith the scorching flame,A riddle encloseThat, living or dead,In rhyme or in prose,No seer has read."But a moth," you cry,"Is a thing so small!"Ah, yes; but whyShould it suffer at all?Why should a sobFor the vaguest smartOne moment throbThrough the tiniest heart?Why in the wholeWide universeShould a single soulFeel that primal curse?Not all the throesOf mightiest mind,Nor the heaviest woesOf human kind,Are of deeper weightIn the riddle of thingsThan that insect's fateWith the mangled wings.VBut if only IIn my simple songCould tell you the WhyOf that one little wrong,I could tell you moreThan the deepest pageOf saintliest loreOr of wisest sage.For never as yetIn its wordy strifeCould Philosophy getAt the import of life;And Theology's sawsHave still to explainThe inscrutable causeFor the being of pain.So I somehow fearThat in spite of both,We are baffled hereBy this one singed moth.
ON the crimson clothOf my study deskA lustrous mothPoised statuesque.Of a waxen mouldWere its light limbs shaped,And in scales of goldIts body was draped:While its luminous wingsWere netted and veinedWith silvery strings,Or golden grained,Through whose filmy mazeIn tremulous flightDanced quivering raysOf the gladsome light.
ON the crimson cloth
Of my study desk
A lustrous moth
Poised statuesque.
Of a waxen mould
Were its light limbs shaped,
And in scales of gold
Its body was draped:
While its luminous wings
Were netted and veined
With silvery strings,
Or golden grained,
Through whose filmy maze
In tremulous flight
Danced quivering rays
Of the gladsome light.
IIOn the desk hard byA taper burned,Towards which the eyeOf the insect turned.In its vague little mindA faint desireRose, undefined,For the beautiful fire.Lightly it spreadEach silken van;Then away it spedFor a moment's span.And a strange delightLured on its courseWith resistless mightTowards the central source:And it followed the spellThrough an eddying maze,Till it fluttered and fellIn the deadly blaze.
II
On the desk hard by
A taper burned,
Towards which the eye
Of the insect turned.
In its vague little mind
A faint desire
Rose, undefined,
For the beautiful fire.
Lightly it spread
Each silken van;
Then away it sped
For a moment's span.
And a strange delight
Lured on its course
With resistless might
Towards the central source:
And it followed the spell
Through an eddying maze,
Till it fluttered and fell
In the deadly blaze.
IIIDazzled and stunnedBy the scalding pain,One moment it swooned,Then rose again;And again the fireDrew it on with its charmsTo a living pyreIn its awful arms;And now it liesOn the table hereBefore my eyesShrivelled and sere.
III
Dazzled and stunned
By the scalding pain,
One moment it swooned,
Then rose again;
And again the fire
Drew it on with its charms
To a living pyre
In its awful arms;
And now it lies
On the table here
Before my eyes
Shrivelled and sere.
IVAs I sit and museOn its fiery fate,What themes abstruseMight I meditate!For the pangs that thrilledThrough that martyred frameAs its veins were filledWith the scorching flame,A riddle encloseThat, living or dead,In rhyme or in prose,No seer has read."But a moth," you cry,"Is a thing so small!"Ah, yes; but whyShould it suffer at all?Why should a sobFor the vaguest smartOne moment throbThrough the tiniest heart?Why in the wholeWide universeShould a single soulFeel that primal curse?Not all the throesOf mightiest mind,Nor the heaviest woesOf human kind,Are of deeper weightIn the riddle of thingsThan that insect's fateWith the mangled wings.
IV
As I sit and muse
On its fiery fate,
What themes abstruse
Might I meditate!
For the pangs that thrilled
Through that martyred frame
As its veins were filled
With the scorching flame,
A riddle enclose
That, living or dead,
In rhyme or in prose,
No seer has read.
"But a moth," you cry,
"Is a thing so small!"
Ah, yes; but why
Should it suffer at all?
Why should a sob
For the vaguest smart
One moment throb
Through the tiniest heart?
Why in the whole
Wide universe
Should a single soul
Feel that primal curse?
Not all the throes
Of mightiest mind,
Nor the heaviest woes
Of human kind,
Are of deeper weight
In the riddle of things
Than that insect's fate
With the mangled wings.
VBut if only IIn my simple songCould tell you the WhyOf that one little wrong,I could tell you moreThan the deepest pageOf saintliest loreOr of wisest sage.For never as yetIn its wordy strifeCould Philosophy getAt the import of life;And Theology's sawsHave still to explainThe inscrutable causeFor the being of pain.So I somehow fearThat in spite of both,We are baffled hereBy this one singed moth.
V
But if only I
In my simple song
Could tell you the Why
Of that one little wrong,
I could tell you more
Than the deepest page
Of saintliest lore
Or of wisest sage.
For never as yet
In its wordy strife
Could Philosophy get
At the import of life;
And Theology's saws
Have still to explain
The inscrutable cause
For the being of pain.
So I somehow fear
That in spite of both,
We are baffled here
By this one singed moth.