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!
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?
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?"
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
I indeed have hung too long
