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 Linnaean--
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.