This is a rough draft of the poem that later became Fireflies. I really don't know which one I like better.

the fireflies were out last night.
it was evening, and there were few stars in the sky,
for they were all on earth.
the pulsing, shooting stars flew to and fro,
and, a small child again, i chased after them,
caught a few, and wished on all of them.
i wished to have luck catching them, but not too much,
for nothing is better than the thrill of the chase,
when it's night, or evening, and the moon is shining above,
and you are out in the light of a street lamp,
chasing fireflies;
or out in the overgrown yard,
pursuing fireflies;
in bare feet, stepping on thistles,
looking for fireflies,
and hiding from those who would ridicule you
for capturing fireflies,
and releasing them again, with a wish on the light
of your fireflies,
and knowing that some day, some time, it will come true.
because of the fireflies.