I never glimpse her but she goesWho had been basking in the sun,Her links of chain mail one by oneAglint with pewter, bronze and rose.I never see her lying coiledAtop the garden step, or underA dark leaf, unless I blunderAnd by some motion she is foiled.Too late I notice as she passesZither of chromatic scale—I only ever see her tailQuicksilver into tall grasses.I know her only by her flowing,By her glamour disappearingInto shadow as I’m nearing—I only recognize her going.
A.E. Stallings.
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