by Robert Laurence Binyon
At her window gazes over the elms
A girl; she looks on the branching green;
But her eyes possess unfathomed realms,
Her young hand holds her dreaming chin.
Drifted, the dazzling clouds ascend
In indolent order, vast and slow,
The great blue; softly their shadows send
A clearness up from the wall below.
An old man houseless, leaning alone
By the tree--girt fountain, only heeds
The fall of the spray in the shine of the sun,
And nothing possessing, nothing needs.
The square is heavy with silent bloom;
The tardy wheels uncertain creep.
Above in a narrow sunlit room,
The widower watches his child asleep.
Last updated January 14, 2019