Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 215

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CCXV FROM MY WINDOW
An old man leaning on a gateOver a London mews—to contemplate—Is it the sky above—the stones below? Is it remembrance of the years gone by, Or thinking forward to futurityThat holds him so?
Day after day he stands,Quietly folded are the quiet hands,Rarely he speaks. Hath he so near the hour when Time shall end, So much to spend?What is it he seeks?
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Whate'er he be,He is become to meA form of rest. I think his heart is tranquil, from it springs A dreamy watchfulness of tranquil things,And not unblest.

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