The Moth Lady

With the dusk of the year came the Lady of Moths,
When the sun beneath veils was in grieving for Day;
From out the full jaundicing moon she would creep
And like ink through clear water, death spread beneath.

She thieved all the leaves from the shivering trees;
Her fingers found dark hair and silvered the threads;
The rot-beetles down to their supper she bade;
She fashioned her songs from the groans of the dead.

Her imps poured, like treacle, black night over earth -
They stirred it with bat's cry and thunderous clouds.
And with a flick of her feet she would shoot through the sky,
And she laughed and she laughed, but she made the world cry.