What are you, fireflies,
That come as daylight dies?
Are you the old, old dead,
Creeping through the long grass,
To see the green leaves move
And feel the light wind pass?
The larkspur in my garden
Is a sea of rose and blue,
The white moth is a ghost ship
Drifting through.
The shadows fall like lilacs
Raining from a garden sky,
Pollen laden bees go home,
Bird songs die.
The honeysuckle breaks a flask,
And a breeze, on pleasure bent,
Catches in her little hands
The sharp scent.
In the darkness and the dew
Come the little, flying flames,
Are they the forgotten dead,
Without names?
Did they love the leaves and wind,
Grass and gardens long ago
With a love that draws them home
Where things grow?
For an hour with green leaves,
Love immortal leaped to flame,
From the earth into the night
Old hearts came.
What are you, fireflies,
That come as daylight dies?