Moted

[B]ut most she loath'd the hour / When the thick-moted sunbeam lay / Athwart the chambers, and the day / Was sloping toward his western bower.

The still air/To her astonished gaze grew all instinct,/Moted with airy forms for ever drawn/Up, by some genial influence.

The streets were warm with heavy-moted sunshine.

Ensconced, God-like, in his enclosed cab high above the floor, the operator pilots that quiet flight through the dust-moted sun of the shed's interior

Sea-dreaming in the moted air,/A siren lithe and debonair

Inside, the sunbeams were moted with dust, scarcely moving, so that she imagined all the air in the room was filled with it, the soft detritus of blankets years unwashed, walls years unpainted, floors years unvarnished.