A MOTH by Henry Bellyse Baildon

A clumsy clot of shadow in the fold
Of the white blind,-a moth asleep or dead,
And hooked therein with still, tenacious hold,
And dusky vans outspread.

Laid on my hand a wonder of dull dyes,
A somber miracle of mingled grain,
Gray etched on gray, faint as faint memories,
Dim stain invading stain.

Each wind-edge scalloped clear as any shell’s,
With rippled repetitions ebbing in
Rhyme within rhyme, as when cathedral bells
Remit their joyous din.

Complete is it of broken laceries,
A pencilled maze of blending grays,
Mosaic of symmetric traceries,
Assorted in sweet ways.

Black velvet grainings upon pearly ash,
An elf-wrought broidery of hues they stole
From the black moss-blot, and the lichen splash,
From birch or beechen bole.

Strange-headed thing, in ruminative rest
Stirring its flexile antlers dreamily,
With great ghoul-eyes and sable-feathered breast,
In sleep’s security.

"There rest thee, and sleep off thy drowsy fit,
Till night shall triumph in the dusky glades,
And mass her conquering glooms, then rise and flit-
A shadow through the shades!"

If the mystery of a moth can inspire poetic mastery, what can the "ultimate mystery of oneself" inflame? If the Delphic oracle in ancient Greece could recognize that "the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate achievement of wisdom," what can modern men expect to divine? Aristotle the Greek philosopher threw down the gauntlet with his four requirements for advanced education for the thoughtful man: temperance, courage, practical wisdom and justice. When will America pick it the enlightened glove?