Oh, weeping window, braced against the crisp 
Young day! March has caprices—now, it lifts 
Upon your face in mist, in beads and drips. 

These mornings, I arise not knowing which 
Will greet me—scenes of shrouded depths, or clear 
Views outward through your panes to yellow air. 
Each mood-scape has a strong, persuasive grip, 

As if life's truths were all embodied there— 
The lilts of sun, but also subtle lisps 
Of coldness hesitating on the cusp 

Of spring. And yet one feature stays the same: 
Round every pull of whim, round every claim 
Of weather, window, lies your steady frame!