(The neighbourhood of Leghorn: March, 1887)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.
