A Moth

Under a mosquito-bar I lie and smoke;

Content with an ember, while a moth outside

Chooses the flame of a candle. He darts and darts,

Forever untaught by the shock against his wings;

Till at last, too frayed for flight, he trembles downward,

And only his eyes can long for the godly flame. . . .

Have I not tried a thousand times myself

To pierce the fiery quick of being dead?

CALENDAR

Why should I know or care what month it is?