Essential Oils Are Wrung:

Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays;
But this, in lady's drawer,
Makes summer when the lady lies
In ceaseless rosemary.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, born on December 10, 1830, and died on May 15, 1886, was an American poet who is extensively known for her innovative and poignant use of language and form. Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets. Although she seldom left her home, her poetry delved deeply into themes of death, immortality, nature, and human consciousness. Dickinson's unique style continues to influence poets and readers today.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Transplanted.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Death Is A Dialogue Between

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

If I May Have It When It's Dead

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

"Is Heaven A Physician?"

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

English

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A Rose.

A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer's morn,
A flash of dew, a bee or two,
A breeze
A caper in the trees, --
And I'm a rose!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

With A Flower.

When roses cease to bloom, dear,
And violets are done,
When bumble-bees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that paused to gather
Upon this summer's day
Will idle lie, in Auburn, --
Then take my flower, pray!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

To The Most Fair And Lovely Mistress Anne Soame, Now Lady Abdie.

So smell those odours that do rise
From out the wealthy spiceries;
So smells the flower of blooming clove,
Or roses smother'd in the stove;
So smells the air of spiced wine,
Or essences of jessamine;
So smells the breath about the hives
When well the work of honey thrives,
And all the busy factors come
Laden with wax and honey home;
So smell those neat and woven bowers
All over-arch'd with orange flowers,
And almond blossoms that do mix
To make rich these aromatics;
So smell those bracelets and those bands
Of amber chaf'd between the hands,
When thus enkindled they transpire
A noble perfume from the fire;
The wine of cherries, and to these
The cooling breath of respasses;
The smell of morning's milk and cream,
Butter of cowslips mix'd ...

Robert Herrick

Apotheosis.

Come slowly, Eden!
Lips unused to thee,
Bashful, sip thy jasmines,
As the fainting bee,

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums,
Counts his nectars -- enters,
And is lost in balms!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Upon Julia's Sweat.

Would ye oil of blossoms get?
Take it from my Julia's sweat:
Oil of lilies and of spike?
From her moisture take the like.
Let her breathe, or let her blow,
All rich spices thence will flow.

Robert Herrick

With Flowers.

South winds jostle them,
Bumblebees come,
Hover, hesitate,
Drink, and are gone.

Butterflies pause
On their passage Cashmere;
I, softly plucking,
Present them here!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson