Anear the threshold of my home
A wily foe had strayed,
And on a rose-tree in the loam
A wondrous thing he made;
Beneath the cover of the night
He built a silken gin,
And at the break of morning light
Bade all the homeless in.
Each shining cord was made with skill,
And woven with such grace,
That none would dream he meant to kill,
In such a royal place;
The beauty of that bright bazar
No one could ever fear,
Its mirrors caught the morning star,
That glistened crystal-clear.
Its swinging lamps were globes of dew,
Enkindled by the dawn,
And when the morning breezes blew
Across the velvet lawn,
The shining lamps swung to and fro.
Enravishing the eye,
Till garbed in light-robes, all aglow,
Was every flower and fly.
But when the lights began to wane,
As sea-tides slowly ebb,
I heard the minor notes of pain
Issuing from a web;
And as my cautious feet drew nigh,
I heard the dying song
Of one deluded, wayward fly
That watched the lamps too long.