XXII
The Bat
The bat is dun with wrinkled wingsLike fallow article,And not a song pervades his lips,Or none perceptible.
His small umbrella, quaintly halved,Describing in the airAn arc alike inscrutable,—Elate philosopher!
Deputed from what firmamentOf what astute abode,Empowered with what malevolenceAuspiciously withheld.
To his adroit CreatorAscribe no less the praise;Beneficent, believe me,His eccentricities.