The Poem

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A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
See that Fly,—a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the north
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no mate has he near him—while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds.
And back to the forests again!
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[Variant 1:]

1820
A fig for ...1800

A fig for ...

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[Variant 2:]

1800
On his ... 1827

On his ...

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.

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[Variant 3:]

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.

This stanza occurs only in the editions of 1800 to 1815.

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[Variant 4:]

1820
Here's a Fly, ... 1800

Here's a Fly, ...

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[Variant 5:]

1827
... this ...1800

... this ...

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[Variant 6:]

1837
... and not back to the wall, 1800

... and not back to the wall,

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[Variant 7:]

1827
... and the South ...1800

... and the South ...

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[Variant 8:]

1845
See! his spindles ...1800
How his spindles ...1827

See! his spindles ...

How his spindles ...

[return]

[Variant 9:]

1827
... no Friend ...1800
No brother has he, no companion, while I MS.

... no Friend ...

No brother has he, no companion, while I

[return]

[Variant 10:]

1837
... comes ...1800

... comes ...

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[1799 Contents]
[Main Contents]

A Poet's Epitaph