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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!
Poems
by John Banister Tabb
Copyright 1855
Published by Boston: Ticknor And Fields
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Compensation
by John Banister Tabb
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