oil on canvas, 40x50 cm

(1096), poem by Emily Dickinson

 

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides -

You may have met him? Did you not

His notice instant 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 -

But 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.