Classic Poem

The Windows

The windows of the little house look down the crooked lane,
Windows that are watching like a child's wide eyes,
Hopeful in the sunshine and wistful in the rain
And anxious in the winter when the blown snow flies.

Morning after morning I walk the fields a mile,
I go to town and back again—I swing the little gate,
But though I lift my face to them the windows never smile,
They only look above my head and watch, and watch—and wait.

Long since my watching ended—the heart-throbs and the care.
'Tis only for the little house I keep its windows bright,
And sometimes on a May day put a crimson flower there,
Or a lamp that burns unshaded on a wild Fall night.English