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Poem	The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants -- At Evening, it is not -- At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop upon a Spot As if it tarried always And yet its whole Career Is shorter than a Snake's Delay And fleeter than a Tare -- 'Tis Vegetation's Juggler -- The Germ of Alibi -- Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie -- I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit -- This surreptitious scion Of Summer's circumspect. Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn -- Had Nature an Apostate -- That Mushroom -- it is Him!
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