O lovely moth!
who at every dusk
strives for his moon
with the same hope
as the night before.
Her silver light
is your treasure;
the stars, your diamonds;
each flame, a flowing gold.
The ache in your wings
is fond communion;
the wind in your eyes, a kiss;
every fire, a luminous doorway
you leave the cloak of self beside.
O master of search
and paragon of love!
knower of ends
and prince of journeys!
Eyes lit ablaze —
now ash upon the breeze —
you float to such heavens
as you always knew could be.
who at every dusk
strives for his moon
with the same hope
as the night before.
Her silver light
is your treasure;
the stars, your diamonds;
each flame, a flowing gold.
The ache in your wings
is fond communion;
the wind in your eyes, a kiss;
every fire, a luminous doorway
you leave the cloak of self beside.
O master of search
and paragon of love!
knower of ends
and prince of journeys!
Eyes lit ablaze —
now ash upon the breeze —
you float to such heavens
as you always knew could be.