"On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book" is Victorian poet Charles Tennyson Turner's meditation on mortality and memory. Discovering a fly pressed in a book, the poem's speaker reflects that death is both inevitable and unpredictable, coming for human beings and flies alike. It's a shame, the speaker concludes, that so few people leave so beautiful a mark on the world: the fly's iridescent wings are a lovelier "monument" than most of the "memories" people leave behind them. This poem first appeared in Turner's 1873 collection Sonnets, Lyrics, and Translations.
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1Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
2Has crushed thee here between these pages pent;
3But thou hast left thine own fair monument,
4Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert:
5Oh! that the memories, which survive us here,
6Were half as lovely as these wings of thine!
7Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine
8Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near:
9The peril is beside us day by day;
10The book will close upon us, it may be,
11Just as we lift ourselves to soar away
12Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee,
13The closing book may stop our vital breath,
14Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.
1Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
2Has crushed thee here between these pages pent;
3But thou hast left thine own fair monument,
4Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert:
5Oh! that the memories, which survive us here,
6Were half as lovely as these wings of thine!
7Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine
8Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near:
9The peril is beside us day by day;
10The book will close upon us, it may be,
11Just as we lift ourselves to soar away
12Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee,
13The closing book may stop our vital breath,
14Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.
Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
Has crushed 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.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
A Short Biography — Read a brief 1917 biography of Turner.
Early Publications — Read a newspaper article from 1880 that discusses the publication of a collection of Turner's sonnets.
A Portrait of Turner — See a portrait of Turner as a young man.
The Tennyson Family — Read an article that discusses Turner's relationship with his brothers—including the more famous poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson.