Framed in the open window,
’Gainst a background of green and red,
The sweep of a flowing garment;
And the droop of a queen-like head;
And a delicate hand outstretched
To gather the leaves of the rose,
And a voice that carols the story
Of Love, its joys and its woes.
The clouds are rosy above her,
The trees catch the hue of the sky,
Where they bend to the distant gable
All a-glow with an amethyst dye.
A noise at the garden wicket,
A heavier step on the ground;
Two voices talking in whispers,
And one has a deeper sound.
Two figures framed in the window,
Blurr’d in with the leaves and sky;
The breeze from the grave of the daylight
Coming up with an ominous sigh.
The black trees mourn o’er the gable,
The mists steam up from the dell;
Of two, that are framed in the window,
There’s one that loves far too well.