Author Emily Dickinson 149 She went as quiet as the Dew From an Accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the Accustomed hour! She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer's Eve— Less skillful than Le Verriere It's sorer to believe! Tags flower believe star summer 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