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,—
Deputed from what firmament
Of what astute abode,
Empowered with what malevolence
To his adroit Creator
Ascribe no less the praise;
Beneficent, believe me,
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) was a prolific American poet who wrote frequently on death and eternity. She wrote this poem in 1878.
- Editor's Note from May 12, 2016
Issue 48: A spiraling world of numbers, a revealing stone, and our distinct differences. /
- How Plants Count
The language of the universe starts “1, 1, 2.” /
- Two Towns’ Eureka Moments
How a fishing village and an old lumber station are revealing mysteries about the galaxy and ancient Jewish worship. /
- A Peculiar People
We’re made different from each other to be different together. /
- Wonder on the Web
Issue 48: Links to amazing stuff.