Beetle And Moth

I.     There's a bug at night that goes     Drowsily down the garden ways;     Lumberingly above the rose,     And above the jasmine sprays;     Bumping, bungling, buzzing by,     Falling finally, to crawl     Underneath the rose and lie     Near its fairest bud. That's all.     And I ask my father why     This old bug goes by that way:     This is what he has to say:     "That's old Parson Beetle, sonny;     He's in love with some rich flower;     After her and all her honey     And he'll have them in an hour.     He is awkward, but, I say,     With the flowers he has a way;     And, I tell you, he's a power;     Never fails to get his flower:     He's a great old Beetle, sonny." II.     Then again, when it is wet,     And we sit around the lamp,     On the screen, near which it's set,     Comes a fluttering, dim and damp,     Of white, woolly wings; and I     Go to see what's there and find     Something like a butterfly,     Beating at the window-blind.     And I ask my father why     This strange creature does that way:     This is what he has to say:     "Lady Moth that; she's the fashion:     Fall's in love with all bright things:     She has a consuming passion     For this light: will singe her wings.     Once it was a star, you know,     That she loved. I told you so!     Take her up. What lovely rings     On her scorched and dainty wings!     It's a pity, but the fashion."