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 lap,And bow to everything;
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 lap,And bow to everything;
The grass so little has to do,—A sphere of simple green,With only butterflies to brood,And bees to entertain,
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 lap,And bow to everything;
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap,
And bow to everything;
loading the hay wagon
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself 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.—Emily Dickinson.
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself 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.—Emily Dickinson.
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself so fine,—A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing.
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 passIn odors so divine,As lowly spices gone to sleep,Or amulets of pine.
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.—Emily Dickinson.
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.
—Emily Dickinson.