Emily Dickinson’s words do not disappoint


THERE is a flower that bees prefer,	
And butterflies desire;	
To gain the purple democrat	
The humming-birds aspire.	
And whatsoever insect pass,	        
A honey bears away	
Proportioned to his several dearth	
And her capacity.	
Her face is rounder than the moon,	
And ruddier than the gown	        
Of orchis in the pasture,	
Or rhododendron worn.	
She doth not wait for June;	
Before the world is green	
Her sturdy little countenance	        
Against the wind is seen,	
Contending with the grass,	
Near kinsman to herself,	
For privilege of sod and sun,	
Sweet litigants for life.	        
And when the hills are full,	
And newer fashions blow,	
Doth not retract a single spice	
For pang of jealousy.	
Her public is the noon,	        
Her providence the sun,	
Her progress by the bee proclaimed	
In sovereign, swerveless tune.	
The bravest of the host,	
Surrendering the last,	        
Nor even of defeat aware	
When cancelled by the frost.