Emily Dickinson Poem

How many Flowers fail in Wood

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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—

How noteless Men, and Pleiads, stand
I am alive—I guess

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