WHAT has become of the cast-off coats
That covered Will Shakespeare’ s back?
What has become of the old row-boats
Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley’ s cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store
Of Queen Elizabeth’ s ruffs?
I do not search for the ships of Tyre —
The grave of Whittington’ s cat
Would sooner set my spirit on fire —
Or even Beau Brummel’ s hat.
And when I reflect that there are spots
In the world that I can’ t find,
Where lie these same identical lots,
And many of this same kind,
I’ m tempted to give a store of gold
To him that will bring to me
A glass, Earth’ s mysteries to unfold,
And show me where these things be.