Tell it no one but the wise,

The crowd will only jeer:

The living thing I praise,

That longs for death by fire.

Cooling, in those nights of love,

Conceiving as you were conceived,

A strange emotion fills you

While the quiet candle gleams.

You’re no longer in the grasp

Of shadows, darkening,

A new desire lifts you up

On to a higher mating.

No distances can weigh you down,

Enchanted you come flying,

And greedy for the light, at last,

A moth, you burn in dying.

And as long as you lack this

True word: Die and Become!

You’ll be but a dismal guest

In Earth’s darkened room.