The Window Hangs a Scene

The window hangs a scene,

Where patient trees in frame,

Stand silhouettes of green

In oil we’ve yet to name.


The vision breathes in flight,

As birds with every stroke,

Caress the morning bright

While heavy pens are woke.


The window hangs a scene,

More lovely to be sure,

Than Turner’s finest dream

It’s hour so short, so pure.