From Emily Dickinson ~

The mushroom is the elf of plants,
     At evening it is not ;
At morning in a truffled hut
It stops 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.

'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 pleased
To have it intermit ;
The surreptitious scion
Of summer's circumspect.

Had nature any outcast face,
Could she a son contemn,
Had nature an Iscariot,
That mushroom, -- it is him.

~ Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, Chatham River Press. 1983.