Dickinson opens with a shrug. "We should not mind so small a flower" sounds like advice to ignore something unimportant. Then comes the catch: "Except it quiet bring / Our little garden that we lost / Back to the Lawn again." The verb "mind" works two ways here, meaning both "object to" and "pay attention to," and the poem plays on the gap between them. A flower seems to deserve no attention, yet it carries the weight of a lost paradise. The wording "the garden that we lost" echoes Eden, the garden humanity forfeited, and the poem's quiet boast is that a flower can give it back.
The word "Lawn" is worth a pause. After "garden" we expect something grander, but the recovered paradise arrives as a patch of ordinary grass. Eden returns without trumpets, and "quiet," standing where we might expect "quietly," makes the return feel hushed, almost sneaky.
The second stanza turns the flower into a whole landscape, and it does so through the senses. "So spicy her Carnations nod" gives us smell, and the nodding gives a gentle, bobbing motion. "So drunken, reel her Bees" puts the verb before its subject, so the sentence itself lurches like a tipsy insect. Then sound takes on a colour: "So silver steal a hundred flutes / From out a hundred trees." "Steal" suggests music slipping out unnoticed, and the doubled "hundred" makes the scene swell far beyond the single bloom. Oddly, these carnations, bees and trees all belong to "her," the small flower. The poem never explains how one blossom contains so much, which is part of its magic.
Grammatically, the stanza is a run-up. Three lines begin with "So," and the payoff lands in the third stanza with "That whoso sees this little flower / By faith may clear behold." "Whoso" has a biblical ring, and the phrase "By faith may clear behold" is a small paradox, since faith is usually what we fall back on when we cannot see. Here it makes the seeing clear. What the believer beholds is "The Bobolinks around the throne / And Dandelions gold." The Bobolink is a meadow bird of North America, so the heavenly court is stocked with creatures from a field. The dandelion is a common weed, yet in this vision it is gold. Judging by the imagery, Dickinson's heaven is not a distant place of harps and abstractions. It is the familiar meadow, seen as it truly is.
The form helps this humility. Lines alternate between eight and six syllables, in a mostly iambic beat, which is the stanza shape of the hymn book. That suits a poem about faith, but Dickinson fills the hymn pattern with drunken bees and weeds at God's throne, a playful, unsolemn kind of worship. Only the second and fourth lines of each stanza rhyme, and the rhymes change in quality. "Bring" and "again" are only an approximate match to a modern ear, while "Bees" and "trees," then "behold" and "gold," ring true. The sound settles from near-rhyme to full rhyme as the vision sharpens, so the music seems to deliver the harmony the speaker is describing. Dickinson's dashes at the line ends leave each thought slightly open, as if the poem were still looking.
The poem matters because it makes a large religious idea feel like a small, almost mischievous discovery. It does not argue that paradise exists. It shows how paradise might be noticed: by attending closely to something we were told not to "mind," and letting the smallest thing open onto the largest. Many poems praise nature, but this one suggests that looking with faith and looking at a flower are the same act.