Classic Poem

The Moth is waiting for the night
To poise his feathered wings, untried,
Fresh from their prison, scarcely dried,
And trembling for the trial flight.
“The Rose is dreaming of the Bee:
Perchance my Primrose wakes for me.”

The evening wears a golden zone:
One waits and listens, like the flower,
She feels her fate and knows her hour.
The night is come, but not alone:
Love's wings are trembling on the air:
All the heart's treasure lying bare.