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!