81
We should not mind so small a flower—
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.
So spicy her Carnations nod—
So drunken, reel her Bees—
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees—
That whoso sees this little flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Glowing Is Her Bonnet
- The World—stands—solemner—to Me
- To Die—takes Just A Little While
- Good Night! Which Put The Candle Out?
- I Play At Riches—to Appease