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]