THE MOTH DANCE.

Little moth maidens, stop in your flight: Where did you come from out of the night? Why do you never come in the day, Like the dear butterflies? Where do you stay? Little moth maidens, look to your wings: Candles are pretty but dangerous things. Waltzing so airily round and around, Where could two daintier coquettes be found? Silly moth maidens, why so unwise? Have you no sense, then—nothing but eyes? Beating the mirror, fanning the flame, Blinded and dying, and—who is to blame?