But see! a wandering Night-moth enters, Allured by taper gleaming bright. What passions in her small heart whirling, Hopes boundless, adoration, dread; At length her tiny pinions twirling, She darts, and — puff! — the moth is dead.

In: Rodger L. Tarr and Flemming McClelland (eds.), The Collected Poems of Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle - Tragedy of the Night-Moth, Stanza 2, (p. 1)