  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, A-tremble in shimmering grace, A moth from her winter swoon Uplifts her face: Stares from her glamorous eyes; Wafts her on plumes like mist; In ecstasy swirls and sways To her strange tryst.
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