The Grass

~Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

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 odours 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!