Fringed Gentian. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

  God made a little gentian;
    It tried to be a rose
    And failed, and all the summer laughed.
    But just before the snows
    There came a purple creature
    That ravished all the hill;
    And summer hid her forehead,
    And mockery was still.
    The frosts were her condition;
    The Tyrian would not come
    Until the North evoked it.
    “Creator! shall I bloom?”