137
Flowers—Well—if anybody
Can the ecstasy define—
Half a transport—half a trouble—
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow—
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine—
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line—
Have a system of aesthetics—
Far superior to mine.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Dreams&Mdash;Are Well&Mdash;But Waking's Better
- As Far From Pity, As Complaint
- A Transport One Cannot Contain
- Despair's Advantage Is Achieved
- How Happy I Was If I Could Forget