At the Window

So you were sitting and singing,

As the evening chimes where ringing.

At the window there;

And the quaint, old-fashioned shading

Of the window-curtains fading

Made a picture rare.

Long I stood and looked and listened,

While the dying sunbeams glistened

In your golden hair;

Till the shades of night up-creeping

Took you into their own keeping,

I stood watching there.

Often since in vain I've waiteed,

Thinking that you were belated,

Watching for my fair;

But the quaint, old-fashioned shading

Of the window-curtains fading

Only mocked me there.

Henry Richard Foster

Index to poems in the collection by Henry Richard Foster