Lightning-bugs.

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 Linnan -     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     At Madame Haut-ton's carnival,         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.