THE WINDOW
A window—just one opening from the gloom
Of a drab, faded room,
Its frame painted a chalky white, its panes
Spattered by last week's rains.
A white shade, creased and thinned by wear,
Lets the impartial glare
Of sunlight dull the carpet's green. . . .
An ordinary scene—
Yet, if it could speak, it could unfold
Passion and dirtiness, snapped strands of human fate,
Humdrum things, and beauty wonder-souled,—
Love, and its splendor . . . hate. . . .
Of a drab, faded room,
Its frame painted a chalky white, its panes
Spattered by last week's rains.
A white shade, creased and thinned by wear,
Lets the impartial glare
Of sunlight dull the carpet's green. . . .
An ordinary scene—
Yet, if it could speak, it could unfold
Passion and dirtiness, snapped strands of human fate,
Humdrum things, and beauty wonder-souled,—
Love, and its splendor . . . hate. . . .
Oh, every slightest thing has visioned these:
Each warm-lit window questioning the night,
Each silent road, each noisy alley, might
Speak of all wonders and all mysteries.
Each warm-lit window questioning the night,
Each silent road, each noisy alley, might
Speak of all wonders and all mysteries.
Could aught be more usual than what lies without?
. . . Staid vines and creepers, winding in and out
The even picket fence; the glowing grass;
Four straggly rose-slips, with no blur of pink;
Weeds, that shrink
. . . Staid vines and creepers, winding in and out
The even picket fence; the glowing grass;
Four straggly rose-slips, with no blur of pink;
Weeds, that shrink
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