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!"