The children race now here by the ivied fence, gather squealing now there by the lily border. The evening calms the quickened air, immense and warm; its veil is pierced with fire. The order of space discloses as pair by pair porch lights carve shadows. Cool phosphors flare when dark permits yearning to signal where, with spark and pause and spark, the fireflies are, the sites they spiral when they aspire, with carefree ardor busy, to embrace a star that draws them thence. Like children we stand and stare, watching the field that twinkles where gold wisps fare to the end of dusk, as the sudden sphere, ivory shield aloft, of moon stands clear of the world's far bend.
Daniel Whitehead Hicky
Nocturne: Georgia Coast
The shrimping boats are late today; The dusk has caught them cold. Swift darkness gathers up the sun, And all the beckoning gold That guides them safely into port Is lost beneath the tide. Now the lean moon swings overhead, And Venus, salty-eyed. They will be late an hour or more, The fishermen, blaming dark's Swift mischief or the stubborn sea, But as their lanterns' sparks Ride shoreward at the foam's white rim, Until they reach the pier I cannot say if their catch is shrimp, Or fireflies burning clear.