C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Compensation

THE MOTH beholds not death as forth he flies

Into the splendor of the living flame;

The hart athirst to crystal water hies,

Nor heeds the shaft, nor fears the hunter’s aim;

The timid bird, returning from above

To join his mate, deems not the net is nigh;

Unto the light, the fount, and to my love,

Seeing the flame, the shaft, the chains, I fly;

So high a torch, love-lighted in the skies,

Consumes my soul; and with this bow divine

Of piercing sweetness what terrestrial vies?

This net of dear delight doth prison mine;

And I to life’s last day have this desire—

Be mine thine arrows, love, and mine thy fire.