Deeply in his mad less thoughts,
He was sitting on the moths,
Something came to him that day,
It was in the tips of May.
It was light and sweet as daylight,
Though it came to him like midnight,
This deep thought had made him mad,
Afterwards the moths were sad,
It was awful to be thought of,
Just like the winds,
And maids of honor,
Striking through the foggy air,
Grabbing everything that's fair.