The Moth-Signal

(On Egdon Heath)     "What are you still, still thinking,"         He asked in vague surmise,     "That stare at the wick unblinking         With those great lost luminous eyes?"     "O, I see a poor moth burning         In the candle-flame," said she,     Its wings and legs are turning         To a cinder rapidly."     "Moths fly in from the heather,"         He said, "now the days decline."     "I know," said she. "The weather,         I hope, will at last be fine.     "I think," she added lightly,         "I'll look out at the door.     The ring the moon wears nightly         May be visible now no more."     She rose, and, little heeding,         Her husband then went on     With his attentive reading         In the annals of ages gone.     Outside the house a figure         Came from the tumulus near,     And speedily waxed bigger,         And clasped and called her Dear.     "I saw the pale-winged token         You sent through the crack," sighed she.     "That moth is burnt and broken         With which you lured out me.     "And were I as the moth is         It might be better far     For one whose marriage troth is         Shattered as potsherds are!"     Then grinned the Ancient Briton         From the tumulus treed with pine:     "So, hearts are thwartly smitten         In these days as in mine!"