Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 9
Chapter 18 of 146 · 1 min read
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 itself so fine, — A duchess were too common For such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to pass 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!
X.
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself, 'T is that I cannot say; I only sigh, — no vehicle Bears me along that way.
