O moth, that yearns for me,
The whole world pities thee,
Foredoomed on heedless wing,
By mad fire-worshipping.

But sadder is my fate,
Who, when the night is late,
See thee in love come nigh,
At my caress to die!

When I would lend thee aid,
To death thou art betrayed;
Yea, I that love thee well,
I am thy heaven and hell!