Transplanted. By Emily Dickinson

    As if some little Arctic flower,
    Upon the polar hem,
    Went wandering down the latitudes,
    Until it puzzled came
    To continents of summer,
    To firmaments of sun,
    To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
    And birds of foreign tongue!
    I say, as if this little flower
    To Eden wandered in —
    What then? Why, nothing, only,
    Your inference therefrom!