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!