. Flora . THE MOTH. Isled in the midnight air,Musked with the darks faint bloom,Out into glooming and secret hauntsThe flame cries, Come I Lovely in dye and fan,A-tremble in shimmering grace,A moth from her winter swoonUplifts her face : Stares from her glamorous eyes ;Wafts her on plumes like mist ;In ecstasy swirls and swaysTo her strange THE SINGING BIRD.

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Keywords: ., bookauthordelamare, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookyear1919