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Poem by Eleanor Farjeon
It means so little to you To sing a note as you pass, To smile your thanks to the day For donning its cloudless blue And then to go your way, And leave behind in the grass The print of your little shoe Or a petal dropt from your rose And your touch on the vine that grows Over my cottage door: It is nothing at all to you. But to me, it is alms to the poor, And the light of day to the blind, And hope to the desolate; Though you never have once glanced through The window where, half-defined, Half-hidden, I watch and wait-- For it means so little to you.
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