Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||
142
XXIV.
THE SNAKE.
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,—did you not,
His notice sudden is.
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.
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 child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,—
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Unbraiding in the sun,—
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
143
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
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.
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||