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.