Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view,
Called through the arras of the blue
And clapped their hands: "These veils uproll!
And see the comrades of your soul!"
The very flowers that ringed my bed
Their little "God-be-with-you" said,
And every insect, bird and bee
Brought cool cups from eternity.
Hermann Hagedorn
ORDER
It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush:
The petals are spread for a sunning;
The little gold fly is scrubbing his face;
The spider is nervously running
To fasten a thread; the night-going moth
Is folding his velvet perfection;
And presently over the clover will come
The bee on a tour of inspection.
Paul Scott Mowrer
THE NIGHT-MOTH
My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark
Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark,
So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings,
So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings,
As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails,
Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,—
You gleam as a dream, by my window's light,
My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.