The Mushroom. By Emily Dickinson

    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.