(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!"