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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.