Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

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 thou to die! 

1. On the Tleakness of My Lot
2. Possession
3. The Moon Is Distant from the Sea
4. Triumph
5. Going

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