The Earth Turns South/The Window
THE WINDOW
A window—just one opening from the gloomOf a drab, faded room,Its frame painted a chalky white, its panesSpattered by last week's rains.A white shade, creased and thinned by wear,Lets the impartial glareOf sunlight dull the carpet's green. . . .An ordinary scene—Yet, if it could speak, it could unfoldPassion and dirtiness, snapped strands of human fate,Humdrum things, and beauty wonder-souled,—Love, and its splendor . . . hate. . . .
Oh, every slightest thing has visioned these:Each warm-lit window questioning the night,Each silent road, each noisy alley, mightSpeak of all wonders and all mysteries.
Could aught be more usual than what lies without?. . . Staid vines and creepers, winding in and outThe even picket fence; the glowing grass;Four straggly rose-slips, with no blur of pink;Weeds, that shrink Affrighted, when steps pass;One burning spray of geranium, a lit torchThat seems to touch and scorchThe blazing air, until its flaming crestDecays to dusty rest.Beyond, the hill, lifting its ancient head.All usual . . . but there is more to be said.
Past it the grocer's boy carries his wares,Wrapped in its vast affairs:The scolding that he got for coming late. . . .Home squabbles . . . and the movies, when he sees them. . . .Mamie—and the next date. . . .The teachers pass it—boarders at the place—Each with drawn, nervous faceFrom the unending cares that irk and tease them.
No, it has not seen war; though three recruits,In their stiff, awkward suits,Apologetically stop, "just passing by,"For milk, and a piece of pie.Grandma limps slowly, almost at journey's end.The prim-lipped minister . . . friend after friend. Not only people. Here birds meet and woo,Nest, and then scatter. Flowers bud and bloom,The ground drenched with their slow perfume,Flaunting a gaudy red and blue. . . .So on the scarring road, the hill's stooped crest—Day's turmoil, night's unrest.
And it will mull here in its shabby gloomBy the dim, faded room,With frame repainted, new-washed panes,New curtains, and new stains.It sees, but it cannot unfold,Passion and ugliness, snarled strands of human fate,Casual things, and beauty wonder-souled,Love, and its birth and death . . . and hate.