Emily Dickinson sketches two fleeting glimpses of beauty that vanish the moment you try to hold onto them. A butterfly appears on the Brazilian pampas strictly at noon—then, like a license snapping shut, the chance is gone. That word “License” gives the whole thing a curious, almost legal feel, as if nature grants only a tiny window of permission to witness something so delicate. The second image is even more intimate: a mysterious spice “express and pass,” yours for the plucking, but only in that instant. Then the poem lands its quiet punch. The stars you felt you knew last night, familiar and close, are suddenly strangers this morning. The speaker isn’t despairing, exactly—more like someone softly astonished by how everything lovely lives on a timer. The mood is wistful and alert, full of the hush that follows something beautiful slipping through your fingers.
Some such Butterfly be seen — Summary
Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas -- Just at noon -- no later -- Sweet -- Then -- the License closes --
Some such Spice -- express and pass -- Subject to Your Plucking -- As the Stars -- You knew last Night -- Foreigners -- This Morning --