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 Linn'An - 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.