My Window-Ivy

Over my window the ivy climbs,
Its roots are in homely jars;
But all the day it looks at the sun,
And at night looks out at the stars.

The dust of the room may dim its green,
But I call to the breezy air:
"Come in, come in, good friend of mine!
And make my window fair."

So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,
Its leaves all turned to the light;
And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,
And teaches me day and night.

What though my lot is in lowly place,
And my spirit behind the bars;
All the long day I may look at the sun,
And at night look out at the stars.

What though the dust of earth would dim,
There 's a glorious outer air
That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,
And make it fresh and fair.

Dear God! let me grow from day to day,
Clinging and sunny and bright!
Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,
And my leaves may turn to the light.

Mary Mapes Dodge




Half-past four
in the morning: crick, crick.
Must be the heavy step
of new light from the window
beginning to wash the floor.

Wm. Bronk

image: Edvard Munch, Night in St. Cloud