Classic Poem

See, when the simple moth doth blindly rush
To reach the flame, its life oft pays the debt
Of folly. Yet 'tis nobler thus to die
Midst all the brightness of a waking life,
Than from the world ooze out through darkened ways
By beggarly instalments--none to feel
Thy life but thine own poor ignoble self:
And none to tell the moment of thy death
Save those who profit by it.