Charles Tennyson Turner Poetry

This poem by Charles Tennyson Turner unfolds as a Victorian contemplation of mortality and memory as fleeting states of existence. Upon observing the perfectly preserved wings of a fly crushed between the pages of a book, the speaker launches into a poignant but impassioned soliloquy. Oscillating between somber grief and celebratory admiration, they praise the insect for its unintentionally splendid appearance, confessing that most people could only hope to achieve such a memorial. Most humans cling to memories or deeds, yet the fly is ignorant of such ephemeral things, and because of that represents a far purer form of death.

Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,

Has crushed thee here between these pages pent;

But thou has left thine own fair monument,

Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert:

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On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book

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