A swarm of moths, its shadow grows:
A crimson glare now hither flows.
The Opal Cliffs, still pure and gay,
Will soon grow sick and dim as they:

The moths, a herd, a silent dread,
Unliving thing, though not undead,
That grim and gray and nauseous host:
It smells of rot, the glowing ghost.

Yes glowing, red, but never seen:
That haemic hue, in you, pristine.