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Walter de la Mare - The Moth
Work rating: Low

    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.
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