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clothes are beautiful； dear moth？ As beautiful as your scales and
all this silver vesture of the earth and sky？〃
And the moth circled closer and closer until at last its
velvet wings just brushed his lips 。 。 。 。 。
And next morning they found him dead with his neck broken in
the bottom of the stone pit； with his beautiful clothes a little
bloody and foul and stained with the duckweed from the pond。 But
his face was a face of such happiness that； had you seen it； you
would have understood indeed how that he had died happy； never
knowing the cool and streaming silver for the duckweed in the pond。