Poemas 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 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-
There are two Ripenings-one-of sight-
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground-
A homelier maturing-
A process in the Bur-
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air