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Amy Lowell - Sunshine Through A Cobwebbed Window
Work rating: Low

What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries,
Of outworn, childish mysteries,
 Vague pageants woven on a web of dream!
 And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream
Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.

Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees,
The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese
 Dark-banded prints.  Carven cathedrals, on a sky
 Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly
And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk
From over-handling, by some anxious monk.
 Or Virgin`s Hours, bright with gold and graven
 With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven,
And Noah`s ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung
By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung
 In cadences and falls, to ease a queen,
 Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen
Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.
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