At A Window

Just a flower on the window-sill,
That a kindly visitor's hand has brought,
And the lame boy, sitting there patient and still,
Tastes the summer with beauty fraught,
And greets the June and its roses at will,
And gathers a blossom with every thought.

Just a bird, with its bright, quick eye
Glancing in at the window there,
Dropping a note of song from the sky,
And off, swift-winged, on the summer air;
But a thousand singers with him go by.
And sing, and the boy is well aware.

If the summer comes with a single rose,
And in one bird's note sings the summer choir,
And the whole bright world around him glows
At the summoning breath of a boy's desire,
Shall we wait for reasons, and ask, “Who knows?”
Of souls aglow with the heavenly fire?
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