I spy them looming nigh, glimmering gray
With approaching night. Oh how pernicious
Those cold orbs gleam! All eightfold, malicious
and bright. “My dear,” they sickly sweet do pray,
“Come out, don’t hide. We merely wish to play
With you. Do you think us so suspicious?
Truly, we are not so very vicious
Though some, it’s true, our fangs would scare away.

I find that I inexorably cling
To words so honey sweet, and I, like flies
Entrapped, or like the moth, poor little thing,
To fatal lamplight drawn, consumed by dreams.
Of dreams defying death that voice implies,
But wait! I wake, and fantasy it seems.