To the Moth that lies on a Corpse.

Moth: thou art dust
Alive and dry,
Yet die thou must -
Thinne powder cry.

Like the flutter
Of thy lace wings
I must stutter
Of these grave things.
And set my lips,
Like thou thine legs,
To this eclipse
(Which requiem begs).

Before mee, Death.
Beforee thee, Dust,
Blown now by breath -
The timeless gust.