SHELLEY'S SKYLARK

Somewhere afield here something lies 

In Earth's oblivious eyeless trust 

That moved a poet to prophecies - 

A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust,

The dust of the lark that Shelley heard, 

And made immortal through times to be; - 

Though it only lived like another bird, 

And knew not its immortality. 

Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell - 

A little ball of feather and bone; 

And how it perished, when piped farewell, 

And where it wastes, are alike unknown. 

Maybe it rests in the loam I view, 

Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's green, 

Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue 

Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene. 

Go find it, faeries, go and find 

That tiny pinch of priceless dust, 

And bring a casket silver-lined, 

And framed of gold that gems encrust; 

And we will lay it safe therein, 

And consecrate it to endless time; 

For it inspired a bard to win 

Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme. 

-o0o-

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