I was just a lad - before the sun
Had risen, or the day begun -
That I had seen a moonlit meadow,
And being that sort of fellow,
I came to view the mystic scene.
I could not help but touch the buds
That glistened before the dew.
Not satisfied I was, until -
I knew the buds would bloom -
Before me stood two flowers.
Not quite flowers - still in bud -
Yet favored them I did and so -
I picked the first from root did grow.
She was but a daisy, but glad -
Mine eyes did catch the second.
A rose - new from the bush -
And my heart did fill with glee -
For my beloved lass I see -
Would accept it with a grin,
And forgive a young lad's sins.
But Oh! - How could I forget!
When plucked by the stem - a rose -
Will not kindly by the thorn.
So careful did I pick - or rather.
She picked me.
So night subsides to day -
And cheerful I would be -
But my flowers picked show
none but buds - and our
Fates are one, the same.
----
Critique welcomed.
Yes, Dickinson is my favorite poet.