Dickinson’s speaker admits she can’t quite put her finger on what flowers do to people. The feeling is an “ecstasy” that’s half exhilarating, half unsettling—a flood that flows against logic. If anyone could pinpoint its source, she’d hand over all the hillside daisies. But she’s too ordinary for such intensity; the faces of flowers brim with a sadness that’s too much for her “simple breast.” She jokes, almost, that the tropical butterflies circling the purple line possess a far sharper sense of beauty than she does. The mood is a wry, tender puzzle: awe and self-mockery twined together, leaving you with the sense that some things are meant to be felt, not explained.
Flowers -- Well -- if anybody — Summary
Flowers -- Well -- if anybody Can the ecstasy define -- Half a transport -- half a trouble -- With which flowers humble men: Anybody find the fountain From which floods so contra flow -- I will give him all the Daisies Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces For a simple breast like mine -- Butterflies from St. Domingo Cruising round the purple line -- Have a system of aesthetics -- Far superior to mine.