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 Cow—first—
And then he moves his Whetstone—
As if he were a Blight—

But never is the Hazard—met
While he’s at Play—
Did you ever—see him?—
Or his Enemy, the Sun—

He is like our Ant—My Friend—
His Secret is profound—
Dare not question him—
He is safe and sound—

He isn’t in it—
He’s a Genie expired—
Out of all we love—
Or it all extinguished—*

Or another gauntlet unstrapped in
His hanging doubt!

• Emily Dickinson