| Emily Dickinson... |
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides- You may have met Him- did you not His notice sudden is- |
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The Grass divides as with a Comb- A spotted shaft is seen- And then it closes at your feet And opens further on- |
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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 stopping to secure it It wrinkled, and was gone- |
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Several of Nature's People I know, and they know me- I feel for them a transport Of cordiality- |
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but never met this Fellow Attended, or alone Without a tighter breathing And Zero at the Bone- |
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