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,
Atremble in shimmering grace,
A moth from her winter swoon
Uplifts her face:

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