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.