Minds of every shape and size, unknowing Had played an impossible game—vanquished in the end, And burned like that playful moth, flying, Round and round the flame. And there was of course Winged Icarus, falling from his sun—just the same.
Because there it is whence Love’s magic arises: In the ashes of the most insane, not the wisest.
This poem is an acrostic. Take the first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second line, and so on.