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