In your dark house, you should know,
the moths have gathered around a flame.
One by one they'll accept the challenge:
destined to assay closer, and closer.

An unremarkable moth has chanced 
by a window in the wall, by day revealing 
all you could want of the world,
but now sheer and simple as a mirror.

Here he learns more of the flaming wick
than all his brothers combined. 
Framed portraits, though, see naught 
but a moth striking head on glass.

And when you enter by morning, finding him 
laid on his wings on the windowsill,
no part of the grand prospect your eyes rush to
tells anything of a poor drone's success.