The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
— from The death of the moth - Virginia Woolf
Sea at Low Tide
It has frittered itself away in rockpools,
turned itself into a mist,
a sandshine,
and lost its voice. Whatever it had to say
it swallows. There is only
the hushed gulp,
while a bird flies round with a looping whistle
like someone trying to find
its wavelength.
— Matthew Francis, from Literary Imagination (Vol. 14, No. 2, Summer 2012)