404
How many Flowers fail in Wood—
Or perish from the Hill—
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful—
How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze—
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight—
It bear to Other Eyes—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Till Death—is Narrow Loving
- Two—were Immortal Twice
- Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre
- The Cricket Sang,
- I Shall Know Why—when Time Is Over