Classic Poem

Little lamps of the dusk.
You fly low and gold
When the summer evening
Starts to unfold,
So that all the insects,
Now, before you pass,
Will have light to see by
Undressing in the grass.

But when night has flowered
Little lamps a-gleam,
You fly over tree-tops
Following a dream.
Men wonder from their windows
That a firefly goes so far—
They do not know your longing
To be a shooting star.