Shelleys Skylark (The neighbourhood of Leghorn: March)

 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.

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