Emily

XII

To hear an oriole sing
May be a common thing,
Or only a divine.

It is not of the bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto crowd.

(...)

"The tune is in the tree,"
The sceptic showeth me;
"No, sir! In thee!"

LVIII

The bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come,
The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
Wherefore, O summer's day?

XCVII

To make a prairie it takes a clover
and one bee, -
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson in late 1846 or early 1847