A bird, came down the walk — He did not know I saw — He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew From a convenient grass — And then hopped sidewise to the wall And added to the mass —

So, I can think of this, and that — But, as for life on other scales — Who cares? This, now — is all, and all — And why would I care — others tales?

• Emily Dickinson