Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

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 it's breast to lie.

Only a bird will wonder;
Only a breeze will sigh;
Ah! little rose, how easy
For such as thee to die!