Close Close Previous Poem Next Poem Follow Us on Twitter! Poem of the Day Award Follow Us on Facebook! Follow Us on Twitter! Follow Us on Pinterest! Follow Our Youtube Channel! Follow Our RSS Feed! envelope star quill

Window Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Windows by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse
  2. By the Window by Lizzie F. Baldy
  3. Pictures Are Windows by Annette Wynne
  4. Open Windows by Sara Teasdale
  5. Morning Windows by Amos Russel Wells
  6. Enoch Arden at the Window by Alfred Tennyson
  7. From My Hospital Window by Amos Russel Wells
  8. The Window by Amos Russel Wells
  9. At a Window Sill by Christopher Morley
  10. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks by Annette Wynne
  11. The Little Window by Annette Wynne
  12. Frost on a Window by Grace Hazard Conkling

  1. Windows

    by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

    I looked through others' windows
    On an enchanted earth,
    But out of my own window—
    Solitude and dearth.

    And yet there is a mystery
    I cannot understand—
    That others through my window
    See an enchanted land.

  2. By the Window

    by Lizzie F. Baldy

    I had grown tired of study,
    So I laid my text-book down,
    And I watched the faces passing
    By my window in the town.

    Some were plain, and some were pretty,
    Some were good, and others bad;
    But I most was interested
    In a little lass and lad.

    He looked eight, but she was younger,
    With a pretty, dimpled face;
    In her wealth of golden ringlets
    Sunbeams found a resting-place.

    He was pale; those eyes of midnight
    Held a dreamy, far-off look,
    Which the poets all call genius—
    In his hand he held a book.

    Watching them, I saw him speaking;
    Listening, I heard him say:
    "Little Nina, let me help you,
    For the way is long to-day."

    Then he took her hand so gently,
    Led her with such tender care,
    That I thought no other couple
    Walked the earth so pure and fair.

    If we would but help each other
    As we tread life's weary road,
    Think you not each poor, tired traveler
    Would not bear a lighter load?

    All of us must bear our burdens;
    Each and every heart must ache;
    But oh! fellow-traveler! pity
    The sad, weary hearts that break.

  3. Pictures Are Windows

    by Annette Wynne

    Pictures are windows to many lands,
    But a book is a door that ready stands
    To him who will open and go outside,
    Where the rivers and plains are free and wide.
    Pictures are windows through which we look,
    But the door of the world is just a book!

  4. Open Windows

    by Sara Teasdale

    Out of the window a sea of green trees
    Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer,
    They beckon and call me, "Come out in the sun!"
    But I cannot answer.

    I am alone with Weakness and Pain,
    Sick abed and June is going,
    I cannot keep her, she hurries by
    With the silver-green of her garments blowing.

    Men and women pass in the street
    Glad of the shining sapphire weather,
    But we know more of it than they,
    Pain and I together.

    They are the runners in the sun,
    Breathless and blinded by the race,
    But we are watchers in the shade
    Who speak with Wonder face to face.

  5. Morning Windows

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The brightest thing a house can do,
    When morning fills the skies,
    Is just to catch the sun's first rays,
    And flash the brilliant prize.

    No eighty-candle lights within
    Can match the dazzling sight,
    And every window-pane becomes
    A fusillade of light!

    Thus, thus it is when households kneel
    In humble morning prayer.
    The very Sun of Righteousness
    Is caught and captured there:

    And all the day, in all its ways,
    However dull they be,
    The happy windows of that home
    Are scintillant to see!

  6. Enoch Arden at the Window

    Alfred Tennyson

    But Enoch yearned to see her face again;
    "If I might look on her sweet face again
    And know that she is happy." So the thought
    Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth,
    At evening when the dull November day
    Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
    There he sat down gazing on all below;
    There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
    Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
    The ruddy square of comfortable light,
    Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
    Allured him, as the beacon blaze allures
    The bird of passage, till he mildly strikes
    Against it, and beats out his weary life.

    For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
    The latest house to landward; but behind,
    With one small gate that opened on the waste,
    Flourished a little garden, square and walled:
    And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
    A yew tree, and all round it ran a walk
    Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
    But Enoch shunned the middle walk, and stole
    Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
    That which he better might have shunned, if griefs
    Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

    For cups and silver on the burnished board
    Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
    And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
    Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
    Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
    And o'er her second father stooped a girl,
    A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
    Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand
    Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
    To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms,
    Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed:
    And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
    The mother glancing often toward her babe,
    But turning now and then to speak with him,
    Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
    And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

    Now when the dead man come to life beheld
    His wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe,
    Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
    And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness.
    And his own children tall and beautiful,
    And him, that other, reigning in his place,
    Lord of his rights and of his children's love,
    Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,
    Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
    Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared
    To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
    Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
    Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

    He, therefore, turning softly like a thief,
    Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
    And feeling all along the garden wall,
    Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
    Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed,
    As lightly as a sick man's chamber door,
    Behind him, and came out upon the waste.
    And there he would have knelt but that his knees
    Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
    His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

    "Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?
    O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou
    That did'st uphold me on my lonely isle,
    Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
    A little longer! aid me, give me strength
    Not to tell her, never to let her know.
    Help me not to break in upon her peace.
    My children too! must I not speak to these?
    They know me not. I should betray myself.
    Never!—no father's kiss for me!—the girl
    So like her mother, and the boy, my son!"

    There speech and thought and nature failed a little,
    And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced
    Back toward his solitary home again,
    All down the long and narrow street he went
    Beating it in upon his weary brain,
    As tho' it were the burden of a song,
    "Not to tell her, never to let her know."

  7. From My Hospital Window

    Amos Russell Wells

    I see from my hospital window
    A cherished and beautiful lawn.
    The birds in its clustering tree-tops
    With jubilance welcome the dawn.

    Beyond it the courteous meadows
    Make offerings all the day long,
    The golden green of the sunlight,
    The elm-trees laden with song.

    Soft-framing the exquisite picture,
    A circle of forested hills
    Lifts lightly the vision to heaven,
    Away from earth's challenging ills.

    Ah, lovely the scene of enchantment!
    And yet, had I magical might,
    I'd change the whole for an alley,
    A gloomy and pitiful sight.

    If only through wretchedest windows
    (O dream of imperial wealth!)
    I could look on that pitiful alley
    With the conquering eyes of health!

  8. From My Hospital Window

    Amos Russell Wells

    A dear old pallid face, night after night,
    So patient! at the window. Now 'tis dead—
    The window, not the face. What fires were fed
    In those long waitings till I came in sight,
    And then how flashed dear love's dear beacon light
    Glad in that glad old face! I should have sped
    Winged to my waiting lover, but, instead,
    I met her warmth with chill, her love with slight.
    And yet I know it is my lover's joy
    To sit in heaven, somewhere along the way
    That I shall take, and wait there for her boy.
    May all the years, dear Lord, be but a day;
    Peaceful the window where she makes her home;
    Wait with her, happy angels, till I come!

  9. At a Window Sill

    by Christopher Morley

    To write a sonnet needs a quiet mind....
    I paused and pondered, tried again. To write....
    Raising the sash, I breathed the winter night:
    Papers and small hot room were left behind.
    Against the gusty purple, ribbed and spined
    With golden slots and vertebræ of light
    Men's cages loomed. Down sliding from a height
    An elevator winked as it declined.

    Coward! There is no quiet in the brain—
    If pity burns it not, then beauty will:
    Tinder it is for every blowing spark.
    Uncertain whether this is bliss or pain
    The unresting mind will gaze across the sill
    From high apartment windows, in the dark.

  10. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks

    by Annette Wynne

    If you had let me stay all winter long outside,
    Long, long ago, I should have died.
    And so I'll live for you and keep
    A little summer while the others sleep—
    A little summer on your window-sill—
    I'll be your growing garden spot until
    The rough winds go away,
    And great big gardens call you out to play.

  11. The Little Window

    by Annette Wynne

    The little window's open wide
    All day to let the sun inside,
    But when the dark comes, turn about,
    It lets its own warm shining out.

  12. Frost on a Window

    by Grace Hazard Conkling

    This forest looks the way
    Nightingales sound.
    Tall larches lilt and sway
    Above the glittering ground:
    The wild white cherry spray
    Scatters radiance round.

    The chuckle of the nightingale
    Is like this elfin wood.
    Even as his gleaming trills assail
    The spirit's solitude,
    These leaves of light, these branches frail
    Are music's very mood.

    The song of these fantastic trees,
    The plumes of frost they wear,
    Are for the poet's whim who sees
    Through a deceptive air,
    And has an ear for melodies
    When never a sound is there.

Related Poems

Follow Us On: