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<h2>THE GRASS.</h2>
<h2>by EMILY DICKINSON</h2>
<br/>
The grass so little has to do, —<br/>
A sphere of simple green,<br/>
With only butterflies to brood,<br/>
And bees to entertain,<br/>
<br/>
And stir all day to pretty tunes<br/>
The breezes fetch along,<br/>
And hold the sunshine in its lap<br/>
And bow to everything;<br/>
<br/>
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,<br/>
And make itself so fine, —<br/>
A duchess were too common<br/>
For such a noticing.<br/>
<br/>
And even when it dies, to pass<br/>
In odors so divine,<br/>
As lowly spices gone to sleep,<br/>
Or amulets of pine.<br/>
<br/>
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,<br/>
And dream the days away, —<br/>
The grass so little has to do,<br/>
I wish I were the hay!<br/>
<br/>
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