01.01.2011, 12:36
ON FINDING A SMALL FLY CRUSHED IN A BOOK
Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
Has crush'd thee here between these pages pent ;
But thou hast left thine own fair monument,
Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert :
Oh ! that the memories, which survive us here,
Were half as lovely as these wings of thine !
Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine
Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near :
The peril is beside us day by day ;
The book will close upon us, it may be.
Just as we lift ourselves to soar away
Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee.
The closing book may stop our vital breath.
Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.
Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
Has crush'd thee here between these pages pent ;
But thou hast left thine own fair monument,
Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert :
Oh ! that the memories, which survive us here,
Were half as lovely as these wings of thine !
Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine
Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near :
The peril is beside us day by day ;
The book will close upon us, it may be.
Just as we lift ourselves to soar away
Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee.
The closing book may stop our vital breath.
Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.