The Grass so little has to do — (poem 333)
by 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 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, 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 a Hay —