Poetry Archives

Out of the purple drifts,
 From the shadow sea of night,
On tides of musk a moth uplifts
 Its weary wings of white.

Is it a dream or ghost
 Of a dream that comes to me,
Here in the twilight on the coast,
 Blue cinctured by the sea?

Fashioned of foam and froth—
 And the dream is ended soon,
And lo, whence came the moon-white moth
 Comes now the moth-white moon!