<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519132" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The White Moth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IF a leaf rustled, she would start: <br> And yet she died, a year ago. <br>How had so frail a thing the heart <br> To journey where she trembled so? <br>And do they turn and turn in fright,<br> Those little feet, in so much night? <br> <br>The light above the poet’s head <br> Streamed on the page and on the cloth, <br>And twice and thrice there buffeted <br> On the black pane a white-winged moth: <br>’T was Annie’s soul that beat outside <br> And “Open, open, open!” cried: <br> <br>“I could not find the way to God; <br> There were too many flaming suns <br>For signposts, and the fearful road <br> Led over wastes where millions <br>Of tangled comets hissed and burned— <br> I was bewildered and I turned. <br> <br>“O, it was easy then! I knew <br> Your window and no star beside. <br>Look up, and take me back to you!” <br> —He rose and thrust the window wide. <br>’T was but because his brain was hot <br> With rhyming; for he heard her not. <br> <br>But poets polishing a phrase <br> Show anger over trivial things; <br>And as she blundered in the blaze <br> Towards him, on ecstatic wings, <br>He raised a hand and smote her dead; <br> Then wrote “That I had died instead!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Arthur+Quiller-Couch">Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519132" data-title="The White Moth de Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch" data-description="IF a leaf rustled, she would start: And yet she died, a year ago. How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so? And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night? The light above the poet’s..."></div> </div> </div>

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