A bat went about—his business,
As I sat on a darklit porch,
Watching the lights of Bequia Isle
Like cats eyes in a torch.
The pain had mostly subsided,
And I knew I had an hour
Backtracked to test his power.
And I thought of the formal feeling
That Emily made her own—
Immortal lines—so often—seem—
Composed for you alone.
The bat skimmed over a rooftop,
I wished him well in his hunt,
And wished for wings like his to fly
From what I must confront.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes —
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs —
—Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)