Chapter XVII: To a Moth

Spirit of evil, heavily flying, turning,
Dropping to earth,
Caught to the light, with brown wings torn and burning,
Whence was your birth?

Was there a cause that, ceaselessly turning, flying,
Drew you from night?
All that we know is this--the aimless dying,
Killed by the light.

Evil the star that led you, spirit of evil,
Out of your dark,
Breeding desire that conquers us, man and devil--
Passion's red spark.