She only comes when night is near,
And stands a moment quietly
Beside her window, in the dusk—
She lives across the court from me—
And though I cannot see her eyes
Because she is too far away,
I somehow feel that they are kind,
And very soft, and widely gray!

Her hands are only dim white blurs,
That rest against the window pane;
And yet I know that they are firm,
And cool and sweet as April rain.
And, oh, I cannot help but wish
As, through the dark, I go to bed,
That they might rest a moment like
A little prayer upon my head!

She only comes when night is near,
I do not know who she can be;
I never see her anywhere
But just across the court from me....
I am so small the curtains hide
The wistful smiles that I have smiled,
And yet I, somehow, think she feels
The love of me—a lonely child.