On Finding a Small Fly crushed in a Book by Charles Tennyson Turner Lyrics

Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,

Has crush'd 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 bеside us day by day;

The book will close upon us, it may bе,

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.