Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

A NARROW Fellow in the Grass
Occaisionally 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 further on--

He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn--
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot--
I more than once at noon
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.