Theodosia Garrison: 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, 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.”