Emily Dickinson (Dec 1830 – May 1886) | American
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him; - did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens farther on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn;
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn.
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, -
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
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12 Mar 2020 11:13 PM