Emily Dickinson Poems

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The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings --
Like fallow Article --
And not a song pervade his Lips --
Or none perceptible.

His small Umbrella quaintly halved
Describing in the Air
An Arc alike inscrutable
Elate Philosopher.

Deputed from what Firmament --
Of what Astute Abode --
Empowered with what Malignity
Auspiciously withheld --

To his adroit Creator
Acribe no less the praise --
Beneficent, believe me,
His Eccentricities --

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