* TO A BAT *

By Eden Phillpotts

The sickle moon is in the west

And where, against the fading green,

A thicket darkles shall be seen

The humming chafers on their quest.

Come, leather-bird, rise up and gird!

Round sunset eaves there boom again

Great beetles on their sharded wings

And many air-borne lesser things

Are tapping at the window pane.

Come, flitter-mouse, and haunt my house.

But where the stygian water broods,

Dim twilight homes for evermore,

And bats beat up the dusky shore

For white, ghost-moths in phantom woods.

Come, pipistrelle, be off to hell.