LITTLE WHITE RIVER CAMP
A thousand summer-flies, about our camp.
Swarmed in the sputtering smoke and evening damp;
Horse-fly and gnat of all the biting breeds,
Musca domestica, dragons on their steeds:
The light mosquito tuned his gay guitar.
Ant hills took wing and joined the mimic war,
A million moths whose birth that morning made
Wove in the camp-fires flame their burning braid ;
Vacation dream! this was in last July.
Do summer fancies frost so soon and die?
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