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Nobody knows this little Rose—
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it—
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey—
On its breast to lie—
Only a Bird will wonder—
Only a Breeze will sigh—
Ah Little Rose—how easy
For such as thee to die!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Essential Oils—are Wrung
- She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades
- Garland For Queens, May Be
- By Such And Such An Offering
- Conjecturing A Climate
