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Nobody knows this little Rose–
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it–
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from a far journey–
On its breast to lie–
Only a Bird will wonder–
Only a Breeze will sigh–
Ah little Rose–how easy
For such as thee to die!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. summer 1858
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