The window box across the street <br />Is filled with scarlet flowers; <br />They glow, like bits of sunset cloud, <br />Across the dragging hours. <br />What though the mist be like a shroud <br />What though the day be dreary? <br />The window box across the street <br />Is warm, and gay, and cheery! <br /> <br />The window box across the street <br />Is filled with scarlet flowers; <br />I almost catch their perfume sweet. . . . <br />Above the sound of tramping feet, <br />They sing of country bowers. <br />Against the house that looms so gray, <br />They smile in - well, a friendly way. <br /> <br />A tired shop girl hurries by; <br />Their color seems to catch her eye; <br />She pauses, starts, and wistfully <br />She gazes up. It seems to me <br />That I can hear her longing sigh. . . . <br />A little shop girl hurries by. <br /> <br />A newsboy stops to sell his wares; <br />The crowds brush by him; no one cares <br />To buy his papers. But above <br />The scarlet flowers bravely grow <br />In token of the Father's love. . . . <br />The crowds brush coldly by below. <br /> <br /> <br />A blind man stumbles, groping past; <br />He cannot see their scarlet shine; <br />And yet some memory seems to twine <br />About his soul. <br />For, oh, he turns <br />As trusting as a child who yearns <br />For some vague dream, and smilingly <br />He lifts the eyes that cannot see. . . . <br />A blind man stumbles, groping past. <br /> <br />The window box across the street <br />Is filled with scarlet flowers; <br />They tell a secret, tender, sweet, <br />Through all the dreary hours. <br />And folk who hurry on their way <br />Dream of some other brighter day. . . . <br />The window box across the street <br />Is filled with scarlet flowers.<br /><br />Margaret Elizabeth Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scarlet-flowers/
