This poem was published long ago under a different title, but stumbling upon the haunting image below brought it to back to mind.
Poem and image seem ideally suited to one another.
As night goes stepping like a dancer;
white frost stands on the black-thorn;
moonlight spills on the expanse, where
grass advances, each blade drawn.
From her bed, voices entrance her
then draw her, helpless as a fawn,
out to the bridge and there, balance her
briefly, before she plunges down,
as night goes stepping like a dancer,