Out of the bosky glen into the still summer night,
Fluttering, twinkling, sparkling, light upon fairy light,
The fireflies dance and glance in an endless flickering flight.

And over the still grey Narrows, stabbing the silvery haze,
The flaring festal lights of Coney Island blaze
Where men and women dance in a razzling dazzling daze.

And, sitting in silence under the dark unrustling trees,
We think of the lads who crouch in trenches overseas
With eyes that stare all night on other lights than these.