The Lady In The Window

Wynne Harvey

The lady sits in the window,
Stitching her tapestry as fair;
The sun shines in and leaves with her,
A glistening on her hair.

As people pass along the walk,
They see her smiling face;
How nice it is to see someone,
Who brightens up the place.

The children playing in the street,
Always looked to see;
The lady in the window,
And her flowing tapestry.

At times a thought to say hello,
But a wave exchanged instead;
An acknowledgement that she is there,
A nodding of the head.

One fine day as morning broke,
The sunshine through the panes,
Could not find the hair , as fair,
Or the lady just the same.

The people on the streets below,
Could not explain the sight;
The tapestry was finished,
She had passed on late that night.

If there was something they could do,
To carry on her memory;
The lady in the window,
Stitching on her tapestry.

They sought the key to enter in,
And much to their surprise;
Lay the lady and her tapestry,
Peace resting in her eyes.

There lay the scenes of busy streets,
Of people down below;
Children laughing, children playing,
Of seasons long ago.

The smile from each and every face,
That she had come to see,
Lay stitched and woven through and through,
The lady's tapestry.

And so in thought, they came to rest,
That they should honor her;
The lady who had yet no name,
No identity in words.

Below the sill of her fine home,
They hung her work of art;
The lady's flowing tapestry,
For them had become a part.

And when they looked to see it there,
They often thought instead;
Of her smiling face, her glistening hair,
And the nodding of her head.

No need for tears, we would in fact,
Not remember her that way;
But think of the love in the stitches she sewed,
Every time we passed her way.