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