SCARLET FLOWERS

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.