A moth is drawn to flame as sword is drawn to fight, art is drawn to please, and Moon is drawn by Night, a bite, of aconite, to ward away the wolf who chases you, down a mottled road—a bed of snow forebodes a sleepless night, a sight of silver moon who looms about, in white, of vestal flight—your mournful eyes that flicker left and right, and droop to a pitch, to no avail.