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Poems
The Window.
By Denis Florence MacCarthy
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At my window, late and early,
In the sunshine and the rain,
When the jocund beams of morning
Come to wake me from my napping,
With their golden fingers tapping
At my window pane:
From my troubled slumbers flitting,
From the dreamings fond and vain,
From the fever intermitting,
Up I start, and take my sitting
At my window pane: -
Through the morning, through the noontide,
Fettered by a diamond chain,
Through the early hours of evening,
When the stars begin to tremble,
As their shining ranks assemble
O’er the azure plain:
When the thousand lamps are blazing
Through the street and lane -
Mimic stars of man’s upraising -
Still I linger, fondly gazing
From my window pane!
For, amid the crowds slow passing,
Surging like the main,
Like a sunbeam among shadows,
Through the storm-swept cloudy masses,
Sometimes one bright being passes
’Neath my window pane:
Thus a moment’s joy I borrow
From a day of pain.
See, she comes! but - bitter sorrow!
Not until the slow to-morrow,
Will she come again.
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