Nobody

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!

Emily Dickinson