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 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 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
Written by: Emily Dickinson
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