BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
See what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute,A miracle of design!
What is it? A learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can,The beauty would be the same. The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill?
Did he push, when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water-world?
Slight, to be crushed with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine,Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shockOf the cataract seas that snap The three-decker"s oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand!
Small seroice is true service while it lasts;Of humblest friends, bright creature!Scorn not one; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.
(DRTH)