Purple Clover. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

    There is a flower that bees prefer,
    And butterflies desire;
    To gain the purple democrat
    The humming-birds aspire.

    And whatsoever insect pass,
    A honey bears away
    Proportioned to his several dearth
    And her capacity.

    Her face is rounder than the moon,
    And ruddier than the gown
    Of orchis in the pasture,
    Or rhododendron worn.

    She doth not wait for June;
    Before the world is green
    Her sturdy little countenance
    Against the wind is seen,

    Contending with the grass,
    Near kinsman to herself,
    For privilege of sod and sun,
    Sweet litigants for life.

    And when the hills are full,
    And newer fashions blow,
    Doth not retract a single spice
    For pang of jealousy.

    Her public is the noon,
    Her providence the sun,
    Her progress by the bee proclaimed
    In sovereign, swerveless tune.

    The bravest of the host,
    Surrendering the last,
    Nor even of defeat aware
    When cancelled by the frost.