  Around my vine-wreathed portico, At evening, there's a perfect glow Of little lights a-flashing— As if the stellar bodies had From super-heat grown hyper-mad, And spend their ire in clashing. As frisky each as shooting star, These tiny electricians are The Lampyrine LinnÆan— Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam Like scintillations in a dream Of something empyrean. They brush my face, light up my hair, My garments touch, dart everywhere; And if I try to catch them They're quicker than the wicked flea— And then I wonder how 'twould be To have a dress to match them. To be a "princess in disguise," And wear a robe of fireflies All strung and wove together, And be the cynosure of all In fashion's gayest feather. So, sudden, falls upon the grass The overpow'ring light of gas, And through the lattice streaming; As wearily I close my eyes Brief are the moments that suffice To reach the land of dreaming. Now at the ball, superbly dressed As I suppose, to eclipse the rest, Within an alcove shady A brilliant flame I hope to be, While all admire and envy me, The "bright electric lady." But, ah, they never shine at all! My eyes ignite—I leave the hall, For wrathful tears have filled them; I could have crushed them on the spot— The bugs, I mean!—and quite forgot That stringing them had killed them. |
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