The Grass

IX. THE GRASS.

THE grass so little has to do, — A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything ; And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make myself so fine, — A duchess were too common For such a noticing. In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away, — The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay !

 

from Poems by Emily Dickinson (1890)
Summer's Armies	"A little road not made of man"

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