Read the poem: “The Bat”

by Emily Dickinson

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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.

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