Author Emily Dickinson Essential oils are wrung:The attar from the roseIs not expressed by suns alone,It is the gift of screws.The general rose decays;But this, in lady's drawer,Makes summer when the lady liesIn ceaseless rosemary. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments