Frank Dempster Sherman

Out of the purple drifts,
 From the shadow sea of night,
On tides of musk a moth uplifts
 Its weary wings of white.
Is it a dream or ghost
 Of a dream that comes to me,
Here in the twilight on the coast,
 Blue cinctured by the sea?
Fashioned of foam and froth —
 And the dream is ended soon,
And lo, whence came the moon-white moth
 Comes now the moth-white moon!