The Grass — Emily Dickinson

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 tunesThe breezes fetch along,And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make myself so fine,—A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to passIn 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!