No one knows the colour of a flower till it is broken.
No one knows, the heart of a child, how it grows until it is too late.
I knew the poor, I knew the hideous death they die, when famine lays its bleak hand on the door; I knew the rich, sated with merriment, who yet are sad.
The things I have are nameless, old and true; they may not be named; few may live and know.
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