To pass in odors so divine

The grass so little has to do -
A Sphere of simple Green -
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain -
An 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, 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 -

"The Grass so little has to do" by Emily Dickinson