See, when the simple moth doth blindly rush
To reach the flame, its life oft pays the debt
Of folly. Yet 'tis nobler thus to die
Midst all the brightness of a waking life,
Than from the world ooze out through darkened ways
By beggarly instalments--none to feel
Thy life but thine own poor ignoble self:
And none to tell the moment of thy death
Save those who profit by it.