The Warning
Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?
Adelaide Crapsey
Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?
Out of a strangely still dusk, a white moth flutters up, and in that instant the speaker feels a coldness wash over them. It’s as if the moth is a silent alarm, a small, spectral visitor that doesn’t belong to ordinary evening.
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