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 checkered
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.
- Vladimir Nabokov
http://theondioline.wordpress.com/2012/02/27/on-discovering-a-butterfly/