Cambridge, Spring 1937
At last the air fragrant, the bird's bubbling whistle
Succinct in the unknown unsettled trees:
O little Charles, beside the Georgian colleges
And milltown New England; at last the wind soft,
The sky unmoving, and the dead look
Of factory windows separate, at last,
From windows gray and wet:
for now the sunlight
Thrashes its wet shellac on brickwalk and gutter,
White splinters streak midmorning and doorstep,
Winter passes as the lighted streetcar
Moves at midnight, one scene of the past,
Droll and unreal, stiff, stilted and hooded.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Related quotes
Factory Windows Are Always Broken
Factory windows are always broken.
Somebody's always throwing bricks,
Somebody's always heaving cinders,
Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.
Factory windows are always broken.
Other windows are let alone.
No one throws through the chapel-window
The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.
Factory windows are always broken.
Something or other is going wrong.
Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark.
End of factory-window song.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Now Close The Windows
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
poem by Robert Frost
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Bare Windows
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And see it all --
Bright sunlight,
Deep shadows,
Birds in flight,
Bare dead trees,
Thick tangled vines
That whisper in the breeze.
Fox hunts the mouse.
Snake slithers by
Shedding his dry skin house.
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And I love it all.
poem by M. Elizabeth Barrett Doyle
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Frost Roses
Ice Roses
Frost on windows? Not where I live now, but where
I grew up, winter windows had thick layers of ice.
And in mornings, before anyone got out of bed, I
carved landscape and faces and saw my work fade
slowly away, by noon I could see the landscape
I had carved through clear windows, the mountain’s
stream, frozen solid now, and trees; mother’s face
also as she was busy in the kitchen baking bread.
I do not miss the cold Nordic land I came from, but
wish windows here too have frost roses, or be as
blank as a new page I could write. “I love you on.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Window
Ten windows light the horizon, this world,
Once the atmosphere escapes into the unknown.
Hearing grapes and cherries of the sky
We glide to the sea’s mystery, throwing harmony.
This land is made of woes of time, honoured by workers
That spend alcohol, sweet and secret, in their wilful calm.
My windows are focussed on my bedroom mat,
Where leaving is committed, a little sound collapses.
The mattress seems heavy with laughter of last-night’s
Dreaming, escalading, jumping, and forcing.
Let the windows of this tree of life
Be shone with direct sunlight!
poem by Naveed Akram
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The grey monotony of winter
Winter, these days,
reminds me of grey and orange,
of faded mosses and polished stones,
of icy sheen and black sheer,
of falling white leaves and winter flowers,
of the torquiosire sky and fading sunlight,
the dusty windows now covered with snow,
Its the grey monotony of winter that I love!
poem by Amatulla Mohammadi
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Home Coming
Leaving in the dark
In an accidental day
From the dawn
To the following day
Celebrated winter wedding
Putting on by
Official white dress of
Soft cozy woolen snow
Enjoyed the day having
Made a velvet carpet with fallen snow
Closed windows opened
Opened windows closed
To see the snow bride
Of celebration had
Melting the joy in the eve
Saying good bye
Left winter bride
Returned home
To live with a long time
Fresh and beauty of own
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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Steamy Windows
(tony joe white)
Well I was thinkin bout parking the other night
We was out on a back road
Me and my lady was just gettin right
All systems on overload
Radio blasting in the front seat
Turnin out the music fine
We were snuggled up in the back seat
Makin up for lost time
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
You can wine and dine a lady all night
With good intent
But theres something about a rendezvous on a back road
That gets mighty intense
Steamy windows
Aint nobody can see
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Theres a sound outside the front door
And I know its just the wind
But it makes us wanna snuggle just a little bit closer
And it starts all over again
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Steamy windows
Zero visiblity
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Steamy windows...
Steamy windows
Comin from the body heat
Aint nobody can see...
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring Song
ALL winter through I sat alone,
Doors barred and windows shuttered fast,
And listened to the wind's faint moan,
And ghostly mutterings of the past;
And in the pauses of the rain,
'Mid whispers of dead sorrow and sin,
Love tapped upon the window pane:
I had no heart to let him in.
But now, with spring, my doors stand wide;
My windows let delight creep through;
I hear the skylark sing outside;
I see the crocus, golden new.
The pigeons on my window-sill,
Winging and wooing, flirt and flout,--
Now Love must enter if he will,
I have no heart to keep him out.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Where Does The Wind Go
Where does the wind go on cold, cold nights
Out of the sight of the bright sunlight,
Under the gaze of the glowing moon,
When all the world is tired and sleeping;
Moaning and carrying on something fierce
Could it be that the wind is weeping?
Where does the wind hide it's broken heart,
Out on the lake, around the boat
And even when no one’s there to hear,
Does the wind ever look for an alibi
When it's so quiet, you can hear your breath,
But the wind only heaves one threadbare sigh?
Where is the place wind could stay it's breeze;
So fidgety, flighty and full of glee
Holding it's breath till the doors fell in;
The windows all cracking their window jams,
Saving it all for a winter's storm
When the trees bend as low as they can.
poem by Patti Masterman
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A Winter Tale
The winter snow lays
white upon the ground
and glistens in the sunlight
of a brand new day.
The snow is crisp under foot
to show us Jack Frost has been about.
The windows show his artistry
on the inside and the out.
A chill from a north wind
bites through everything,
and everything is waiting
for the coming warmth of spring.
16 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Windows To Bill Gates Or Paul Allen And History Of Windows
window's leaves
windows of open sea
windows as far as possible
windows easier
windows update
window shopper
window tablet
windows on the world
window seat
(Music by The Implicit Order) .
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Too Tired To Notice The Storm Of The Earth...
i wake up early today
i open the windows and the door
the ground is flooded
the trees shed more leaves
the chickens' feathers are
thoroughly wet
some branches are cut-off
from those old tall trees
our dog is not wagging its tail
the lights at the kitchen are not turned off
by the looks of it
there was a big storm last night
i did not notice it
i was dead asleep
too tired of my own inner storms
my door is closed,
all my windows are shut.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Broken Windows Shattered Mirrors
Broken windows shattered mirrors
The tiny slivers fall like tears
They cut me till my arms run red
They make me wish that I was dead
And though I try to carry on
I know my time here's almost gone
Broken windows shattered mirrors
Broken windows shattered mirrors
I'm surrounded by these fears
I know I shouldn't be afraid
I feel like I'm locked up in a cage
I push and pull try to get out
I scream until I just can't shout
Broken windows shattered mirrors
Broken windows shattered mirrors
I'll have bad luck seven years
I know it's just a superstition
But I also know it's pure intuition
That made me stay not fade away
So I could live another day
Broken windows shattered mirrors
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Windows
Through the windows you see so much.
Revealing love with the lightest touch.
Through them you see so much truth daren't be spoke.
I sit and look through the windows.
Seeing through all the innuendos.
Reveling in the sweet cresendo.
As I stare through the windows.
The boughs break, and in my heart I celebrate.
As I realize it will not break.
For hours through those windows I could stare.
Worlds a plenty are there to share.
In awe and splendor I now stare.
Through those windows a bright sun glares.
How much longer do I dare,
to stare through these windows that show me things so fair?
poem by Michael McParland
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Be Windows To Be Shut
Don't open the windows!
Cold air will rush in.
Don't open the windows!
Hot air will blow in.
Don't open the windows!
Mosquitoes are there.
Don't open my history!
Treacheries will snare.
Don't open my memory!
Debaucheries will slip out.
Don't open my very eyes.
I should not be a witness.
Let the windows be shut;
With that the past buried.
Switch on the air-conditioner.
Spray on the bed perfume.
I must enjoy my night
With the world outside shut.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Wendell Gee
Thats when wendell gee takes a tug
Upon the string that held the line of trees
Behind the house he lived in
He was reared to give respect
But somewhere down the line he chose
To whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
He had a dream one night
That the tree had lost its middle
So he built a trunk of chicken wire
To try to hold it up
But the wire, the wire turned to lizard skin
And when he climbed inside
There wasnt even time to say
Goodbye to wendell gee
So whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
If the wind were colors
And if the air could speak
Then whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ancestral Dwelling
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned Howers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics, --
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them:
Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.
They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight);
And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans,
Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston,
Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation;
The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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After That.
After that
the only
thing she thought
mattered was
the sunlight
coming through
the tall trees
as you and
she lay on
your backs by
the large pond
listening
to birdsong
and the wind
coming through
the branches
and she there
full of life
breathing in
the sharp air
and she said
Van Gogh could
have captured
this morning
with the trees
and sunlight
and the way
the wind moves
through branches
and you said
but Renoir
despite his
arthritic
hands could have
captured your
young beauty
on canvas
somewhere off
a dog barked
a cow mooed
and your hand
like a crab
moved over
the green grass
and touched her
small warm hand
and she smiled
like da Vinci's
painting of
the Mona
Lisa you'd
seen in that
old art book
in the school
library
tucked between
a battered
old atlas
and book of
poetry
which no one
ever read
no doubt the
pond's still there
the sunlight
and the wind
but she's not
she gone now
all silent
amongst the
peaceful dead.
poem by Terry Collett
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