Moth-Song

    what dost thou here,     Thou dusky courtier, Within the pinky palace of the rose?   Here is no bed for thee,   No honeyed spicery,—   But for the golden bee,   And the gay wind, and me,     Its sweetness grows.   Rover, thou dost forget;—   Seek thou the passion-flower   Bloom of one twilight hour.     Haste, thou art late!   Its hidden savors wait.     For thee is spread   Its soft, purple coverlet;     Moth, art thou sped?   —Dim as a ghost he flies   Thorough the night mysteries.