THE WINDOW
Not only people. Here birds meet and woo,
Nest, and then scatter. Flowers bud and bloom,
The ground drenched with their slow perfume,
Flaunting a gaudy red and blue. . . .
So on the scarring road, the hill's stooped crest—
Day's turmoil, night's unrest.
Nest, and then scatter. Flowers bud and bloom,
The ground drenched with their slow perfume,
Flaunting a gaudy red and blue. . . .
So on the scarring road, the hill's stooped crest—
Day's turmoil, night's unrest.
And it will mull here in its shabby gloom
By the dim, faded room,
With frame repainted, new-washed panes,
New curtains, and new stains.
It sees, but it cannot unfold,
Passion and ugliness, snarled strands of human fate,
Casual things, and beauty wonder-souled,
Love, and its birth and death . . . and hate.
By the dim, faded room,
With frame repainted, new-washed panes,
New curtains, and new stains.
It sees, but it cannot unfold,
Passion and ugliness, snarled strands of human fate,
Casual things, and beauty wonder-souled,
Love, and its birth and death . . . and hate.
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