  Who knows what trouble trembled in that throat, What sweet distraction for the summer moon, That lured you out, a frail, careering boat, Across the midnight's purple, deep lagoon! Some fire of madness lit that tiny brain, Some soft propulsion clouded through your breast, And lifted you, a white and moving stain Against the dark of that disastrous quest. The sadness of all brief and lovely things, The fine and futile passions that we bear, Haunt the bright wreck of your too fragile wings, And win a pity for you, ended there,— Like us, hurled backward to the final shade, From mad adventures for a moon or maid. |
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