The Bat. By Emily Dickinson

    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.