Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Mushroom

 The mushroom is the elf of plants, At evening it is not; At morning in a truffled hut It stops upon a spot 
 As if it tarried always; And yet its whole career Is shorter than a snake's delay, And fleeter than a tare. 
 'T is vegetation's juggler, The germ of alibi; Doth like a bubble antedate, And like a bubble hie. 
 I feel as if the grass were pleased To have it intermit; The surreptitious scion Of summer's circumspect. 
 Had nature any outcast face, Could she a son contemn, Had nature an Iscariot, That mushroom, - it is him.