A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides-
You many have met Him-did you not
His notice sudden is-
the Grass divides as with a Comb-
A spotted shaft is seen-
And then is 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-
-Emily Dickinson
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