A PASSING GLIMPSE
Robert Frost
I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.
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I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.
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I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't:
Not fireweed loving where woods have burtn -
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Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth -
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.
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Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?
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Heaven gives its glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.
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