A Bird, came down the Walk –
~Emily Dickinson
He did not know I saw –
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then, he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass –
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass –
He glanced with rapid eyes,
That hurried all abroad –
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought,
He stirred his Velvet Head. –
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers,
And rowed him softer Home –
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.
Though I love digging deep into poems for their secret meanings, I’m content to appreciate this one on its surface. It’s a lovely close observation of one tiny element of nature–a bird hopping down a path.
The speaker’s delight in the observation spills over in her language. There’s a wonderful contrast between the first stanza, which makes the bird out to be almost cannibalistis–the angleworm he eats is described as a “fellow”–and the second stanza, where the bird courteously yields right-of-way to a passing beetle.
The final stanza is loveliest of all. Dickinson’s description of the bird’s flight is as flawless as that flight itself. The bird is so intimately a part of its surroundings that its flight does not rend the air but becomes part of it, and the human observer can only look on in wonder.
The Emily Project 