Emily Dickinson, writing about a flower:
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!