Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Moon
The Balloon

The Bat

The bat is dun with wrinkled wings
  Like fallow article,
And not a song pervades 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 malevolence
  Auspiciously withheld.
To his adroit Creator
  Ascribe no less the praise;
Beneficent, believe me,
  His eccentricities.