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 Shaft Is Seen; And Then It Closes At Your Feet And Opens Further On. He Likes A Boggy Acre, A Floor Too Cool For Corn. Yet When A Child, And Barefoot, I More Than Once, At Morn, Have Passed, I Thought, A Whip-Lash Unbraiding In The Sun, -- When, Stooping To Secure It, It Wrinkled, And Was Gone. Several Of Nature'S People I Know, And They Know Me; I Feel For Them A Transport Of Cordiality; But Never Met This Fellow, Attended Or Alone, Without A Tighter Breathing, And Zero At The Bone.