Nobody knows this little rose
by Emily Dickinson

Nobody knows this little rose,
It might a pilgrim be.
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.

Only a bee will miss it,
Only a butterfly,
Hastening from far journey
On its breast to lie.

Only a bird will wonder,
Only a breeze will sigh,
Ah, little rose, how easy
For such as thee to die!