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Fireflies

Edward S. Sorenson

There’s charm in the bush where the fireflies display
    Their lamps in an air that is still,
Soft lights that go twinkling about when the day
Turns to grey
In merry cotillions that flutter and sway
    Over rill,
    Vale and hill,
And amble and ramble away.

The sweet haunting call of a night-bird I hear,
    Far off where the warrigals dream,
While speck after speck like a luminous spear,
Far and near,
Cleaves the shadows wherever the fire-swarms appear
    In a stream
    All agleam,
And entrance as they dance in the clear.

Those  wonderful atoms that twinkle and shine,
    Enraptured I watched long ago;
And old camp-fires I see as they dart in a line,
And combine
With the glow-worms at foot of a dew-wetted vine,
    Passing low
    To and fro.
To the lowing, far lowing of kine.

Down the flowery vale where they drift out of sight,
    A magical air seems to stray;
And sweetly anon, winging far through the night,
Calm and bright,
Sounds the note of a swan overhead in its flight,
    While the play
    Of the gay
Fairy lamps fills the camps with delight.

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