Thursday, July 20, 2017

The Snake

EMILY DICKINSON


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 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 

[Recited 17 August 2017]

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