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?


THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;