The window box across the street br Is filled with scarlet flowers; br They glow, like bits of sunset cloud, br Across the dragging hours. br What though the mist be like a shroud br What though the day be dreary? br The window box across the street br Is warm, and gay, and cheery! br br The window box across the street br Is filled with scarlet flowers; br I almost catch their perfume sweet. . . . br Above the sound of tramping feet, br They sing of country bowers. br Against the house that looms so gray, br They smile in - well, a friendly way. br br A tired shop girl hurries by; br Their color seems to catch her eye; br She pauses, starts, and wistfully br She gazes up. It seems to me br That I can hear her longing sigh. . . . br A little shop girl hurries by. br br A newsboy stops to sell his wares; br The crowds brush by him; no one cares br To buy his papers. But above br The scarlet flowers bravely grow br In token of the Father's love. . . . br The crowds brush coldly by below. br br br A blind man stumbles, groping past; br He cannot see their scarlet shine; br And yet some memory seems to twine br About his soul. br For, oh, he turns br As trusting as a child who yearns br For some vague dream, and smilingly br He lifts the eyes that cannot see. . . . br A blind man stumbles, groping past. br br The window box across the street br Is filled with scarlet flowers; br They tell a secret, tender, sweet, br Through all the dreary hours. br And folk who hurry on their way br Dream of some other brighter day. . . . br The window box across the street br Is filled with scarlet flowers.