My first is a letter, an insect, a word,
That means to exist; it moves like a bird.
My next is a letter, a small part of man,
’Tis found in all climes; search where you can.
My third is a something seen in all brawls.
My next you will find in elegant halls.
My last is the first of the last part of day,
Is ever in earnest, yet never in play.
My whole gives a light, by some men abhorred,
The blessings from which no pen can record.