Out of the night to my mountain porch they came, A thousand moths. Did He who made the toad Make these and give them to the starry road? Ardent, unstill, they circled round the flame -- These wonder-shapes that man can never tame -- Whirled like the first flakes of the winter snows; Tinted with amber, violet and rose Marked with hieroglyphs that have no name. Out of the summer dark they poured in flight, To vanish down the secret roads they keep: Unseen they go on their mysterious sweep. Who called them to this rush of mad delight? Do they go lost and aimless to the deep? Why this rich beauty wandering the night? |