Across the street from me I glimpse
The glow of it. It is as gay
As little songs that children sing —
It calls to me through all the day.
The scarlet buds, the trailing vines,
The drowsy red, half opened flowers,
Are like soft hands to help me through
The loneliness of tired hours.

I wonder at the folk who tend
The window box. . . . Perhaps they know
That it is like a friendly voice
To many passersby below.
Perhaps they know that people pause
To gaze at it with lifted eyes,
And dream a while of lovely things,
Of peace and hope and country skies.

The window box across the street —
The sight of it is always new!
It nestles close upon my heart,
As little acts of kindness do.
Sometimes my soul is filled with cheer,
Reflected from across the way —
Sometimes my lips are curved with smiles
Because the colors are so gay. . . .