Shelley’s Skylark
Somewhere afield here something liesIn Earth’s oblivious eyeless trustThat 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 hueOf a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene.
Go find it, faeries, go and findThat 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 winEcstatic heights in thought and rhyme.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.