A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides— You may have met Him—did you not His notice sudden is—
The Grass divides as with a Comb— A spotted shaft is seen— And then it closes at your feet And opens further on—
He likes a Boggy Acre A Floor too cool for Corn— Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot— I more than once at Noon Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled, and was gone—
Several of Nature’s People I know, and they know me— I feel for them a transport Of cordiality—
But never met this Fellow Attended, or alone Without a tighter breathing And Zero at the Bone—
