Passing by these open panes,
Window-shopping with the lives
Of those whose dreams are not like ours,
Whose hopes lie closer to the ground
And do not shop with us,
We cannot know, cannot conceive,
The endings that their evenings fear,
Can only walk by window-sills
And guess at reasons for those looks
Of sullen pensiveness we see.
Throw your bags of gold inside;
The windows call for gifts like yours.
And yet the homes that you now shower
With your gold, they only ask
That you enter and sit.
The Consolations of Writing 