Emily Dickinson
God made a little Gentian—
It tried—to be a Rose—
And failed—and all the Summer laughed—
But just before the SnowsThere rose a Purple Creature—
That ravished all the Hill—
And Summer hid her Forehead—
And Mockery—was still—The Frosts were her condition—
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North—invoke it—
Creator—Shall I—bloom?
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