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 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
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.