Poems (Chandler)/Her Window

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HER WINDOW.
OUT of her window, that morn of grace, She leaned her radiant, beautiful face,—The sun, ashamed, went into a cloud; But, glad of the dawning, the birds sang loud.
A laggard went up the garden walk, And lingered to hear the murmuring talk Of flower and-bee and every comer That fluttered along in front of the summer.
He quaffed the wine of the morning air, And felt with a thrill that the day was fair,—Then he raised his eyes to her window's height,—"Ah, me," he said, "but the sun is bright!"
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