My Rose. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

    Pigmy seraphs gone astray,
    Velvet people from Vevay,
    Belles from some lost summer day,
    Bees’ exclusive coterie.
    Paris could not lay the fold
    Belted down with emerald;
    Venice could not show a cheek
    Of a tint so lustrous meek.
    Never such an ambuscade
    As of brier and leaf displayed
    For my little damask maid.
    I had rather wear her grace
    Than an earl’s distinguished face;
    I had rather dwell like her
    Than be Duke of Exeter
    Royalty enough for me
    To subdue the bumble-bee!