On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book
Charles Tennyson Turner
1808 to 1879
Type into the gaps to complete the poem. To reset the game, click on the "Reset Game" button located below the poem. This will clear all the words you've placed in the blanks, and resetting the poem to its original state with empty blanks. If you prefer to drag and drop words, click the Drag & Drop button below. You can also print out the poem for use in the classroom.
Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
crush'd thee here between these pages pent;
But thou left thine own fair monument,
Thy wings gleam out tell me what thou wert:
Oh! that the memories, survive us here,
Where half as lovely as these of thine!
Pure relics of a blameless life, that
Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near:
peril is beside us day by day;
The book close upon us, it may be,
Just as we ourselves to soar away
Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee,
The closing book may stop our vital breath,
Yet no lustre on our page of death.