Golden-colored miller,
Leave the lamp, and fly away!
In that flame so brightly gleaming,
Sure, though smiling, death is beaming;
Hasten to thy play! Nearer? Foolish miller!
Look! Thy tiny wings will burn.
Just escaped, --but soon 'twill reach thee;
Ah! Can dying only teach thee
Truths thou wilt not learn? Didst thou whisper, miller?
Something like a voice and sigh
Seemed to say, --"in all thy teaching,
Is there practice, or but preaching;
Doest thou more than I?" Wisest little miller!
I indeed have hung too long
Round a flame more wildly burning,
And, with heart too fond and yearning,
Heard no charmer's song. Blinder than a miller
Hovering with devoted gaze,
Where such visions vain I cherish,
Either they or I must perish,
Like that flickering blaze. But the moonlight, miller,
Better far befits our mirth;
That calm, streaming light is given
From the silent depths of heaven;
Fire is born of earth!