The rose is withered long ago—
The page is blistered, too.
“One night we sat below the porch,
And out in that warm air,
A firefly, like a dying star,
Fell tangled in her hair;
But I kissed him lightly off again,
And he glittered up the vine,
And died into the darkness——”
A bugle sounded. Forrest was in the saddle. The scout’s reverie was over.