The Flowers—of the Field
No other sight is sweeter—
Near withered brims of bloom
I see their hearts of Summer—

Another time, another Day,
They’ll blossom o’er the air—
They stand beside the Fragrant Hearth—
I cannot see them there—

An Hour—somewhat will yield
To Nature’s garden!
And if it brings no surprise—
For licorice would love the time!

• Emily Dickinson