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–
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep–
Or Spikenards, perishing–
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell–
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay–
Emily Dickinson
Please be sure to visit Diane Mayr at Random Noodling for the Poetry Friday Round Up
Reading to the Core 
“And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls–” Isn’t that the most fabulous line? I love it!
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One can always count on Emily to give a completely different view:
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell–
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay–
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Thanks for the Emily fix today, Catherine. I feel so refreshed by her words. What a brilliant mind!
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Ah, to lie in the grass with Emily’s words!
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Oh, my, how lovely. I loved when she diverged onto the sect of dying grass, how magnificent. I had to look up Spikenards, and Merriam-Webster defines it as “a fragrant ointment of the ancients.” Fabulous. I love to learn a new obscure word with a delicious meaning. XOXO, Brenda
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Dang. scent not sect. Autocorrect is pernicious.
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