The Moth

    Isled in the midnight air,
    Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
    Out into glooming and secret haunts
    The flame cries, 'Come!'

    Lovely in dye and fan,
    A-tremble in shimmering grace,
    A moth from her winter swoon
    Uplifts her face:

    Stares from her glamorous eyes;
    Wafts her on plumes like mist;
    In ecstasy swirls and sways
    To her strange tryst.

Walter de la Mere