Ye living lamps, by whose dear light The nightingale does sit so late; And studying all the summer night, Her matchless songs does meditate. MarvellThe Mower to the Glow-worm.
Ye country comets, that portend No war nor princes funeral Shining unto no other end Than to presage the grasss fall. MarvellThe Mower to the Glow-worm.
When evening closes Natures eye, The glow-worm lights her little spark To captivate her favorite fly And tempt the rover through the dark. MontgomeryThe Glow-worm.
Like a glowworm golden, in a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden its aërial blue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view. ShelleyTo a Skylark.
Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, The glow-worm lights his gem; and through the dark, A moving radiance twinkles. ThomsonThe Seasons. Summer. L. 1,682.