XXV
The Mushroom
The mushroom is the elf of plants,At evening it is not;At morning in a truffled hutIt stops upon a spot
As if it tarried always;And yet its whole careerIs shorter than a snake’s delay,And fleeter than a tare.
‘T is vegetation’s juggler,The germ of alibi;Doth like a bubble antedate,And like a bubble hie.
I feel as if the grass were pleasedTo have it intermit;The surreptitious scionOf summer’s circumspect.
Had nature any outcast face,Could she a son contemn,Had nature an Iscariot,That mushroom,—it is him.