It was too late for man
It was too late for man, / But early yet for God;
THE BAT - The bat is dun with wrinkled wings
❦
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.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
MY ROSE - Pigmy seraphs gone astray
Pigmy seraphs gone astray, / Velvet people from Vevay,
A DAY - I'll tell you how the sun rose
I'll tell you how the sun rose, -- / A ribbon at a time.
THE SPIRIT
THE SPIRIT. / 'T is whiter than an Indian pipe,