I found it in a legendary land

all rocks and lavender and tufted grass,

where it was settled on some sodden sand

hard by the torrent of a mountain pass.

The features it combines mark it as new

to science: shape and shade—the special tinge,

akin to moonlight, tempering its blue,

the dingy underside, the chequered fringe.

My needles have teased out its sculptured sex;

corroded tissues could no longer hide

that priceless mote now dimpling the convex

and limpid teardrop on a lighted slide.

Smoothly a screw is turned; out of the mist

two ambered hooks symmetrically slope,

or scales like battledores of amethyst

cross the charmed circle of the microscope.

I found it and I named it, being versed

in taxonomic Latin; thus became

godfather to an insect and its first

describer—and I want no other fame.

Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),

and safe from creeping relatives and rust,

in the secluded stronghold where we keep

type specimens it will transcend its dust.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,

poems that take a thousand years to die

but ape the immortality of this

red label on a little butterfly.