The poem is a kind of treasure hunt for something it never names. The speaker begins by saying where "it" is not: not in universities, royal courts, exclusive libraries, or anything sorted, ranked, or rewarded. These are places of prestige and order, and the speaker dismisses them in a flat, almost teasing list.
Then comes the turn: "But look!" The speaker's tone brightens, and the poem tumbles into a wild chain of images, from a tiny fossil tooth to a sixpence balanced on a clown's nose, all stacked up on a tightrope between a stormcloud and a raven's beak. The precariousness is the point. Whatever "it" is, it lives in the odd, delicate, improbable places.
The ending is gentle and funny. The prize is in the dirt under a weaver's daughter's thumbnail, and the speaker casually advises, "you might start there." The mood is playful and wonder-filled, and it seems to favor curiosity over status. The epigraph's "edges of oddness" fits that idea.