Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

How, like a moth, the simple maid / Still plays about the flame!

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again In babyhood.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.