I wot well o' his lying
Such nights out in the cold,--
To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,
To see the glow-worm's gold.
"Dead And Gone" by Madison Julius Cawein
When Earth in gold-corruption lies
Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies
On cyclone wings will reach this place—
Yea, rear their brood on earth’s dead face.
"What The Hyena Said" by Vachel Lindsay