Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXX

 Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown; 
 Except for winds, provincial; Except by butterflies, Unnoticed as a single dew That on the acre lies. 
 The smallest housewife in the grass, Yet take her from the lawn, And somebody has lost the face That made existence home!