Compensation
by John Banister Tabb
How many an acorn falls to die
For one that makes a tree!
How many a heart must pass me by
For one that cleaves to me!
How many a suppliant wave of sound
Must still unheeded roll,
For one low utterance that found
An echo in my soul!
Source:
PoemsCopyright 1894
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston