And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricks
Her passage, and proves peacock-butterfly,
This Autumn—wait a little week of cold!
Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same.
And could she still continue spinning,—sure,
Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,
And o'er this life of hers distaste would drop
Red-cotton-Nightcap-wise.
How say you, friend?