Theodosia Garrison

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, looking, watch and wait.

Long since my watching ended—the heart-thrust and the care.

It’s 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.