Ii

A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,-- Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;-- And in the August-lily’s cone of crystal A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome, Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.

Approach! the moment flies! O sweetheart of the South! Come! mingle with night’s mysteries The red rose of thy mouth, The dark stars of thine eyes.-- Approach! the moment flies!