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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