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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.


By Giordano Bruno (1548–1600)

THE MOTH beholds not death as forth he flies

Into the splendor of the living flame;

The hart athirst to crystal water hies,

Nor heeds the shaft, nor fears the hunter’s aim;

The timid bird, returning from above

To join his mate, deems not the net is nigh;

Unto the light, the fount, and to my love,

Seeing the flame, the shaft, the chains, I fly;

So high a torch, love-lighted in the skies,

Consumes my soul; and with this bow divine

Of piercing sweetness what terrestrial vies?

This net of dear delight doth prison mine;

And I to life’s last day have this desire—

Be mine thine arrows, love, and mine thy fire.