The Bat

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.