Emily Dickinson - The Bat lyrics

The bat is dun with wrinkled wings Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halved, Describing in the air An arc alike inscrutable, — Elate philosopher! Deputed from what firmament Of what astute abode, Empowered with what malevolence Auspiciously withheld. To his adroit Creator Ascribe no less the praise; Beneficent, believe me, His eccentricities.