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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Snake

 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.