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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.