From a Window

Charlotte Mew

                  Up here, with June, the sycamore throws

                      Across the window a whispering screen;

        I shall miss the sycamore more, I suppose,

Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.

             But I mean to go through the door without fear,

             Not caring much what happens here

                           When I’m away:—

How green the screen is across the panes

              Or who goes laughing along the lanes
        With my old lover all summer day.