My song has raised windows fronting
On the north and on the south;
Tapestried and awning-shaded,
Beauty has been barricaded
Behind many, and has vanished
Back of others, and been banished
Because passion serenaded
Roguish eye and rosy mouth. . .

My song has raised windows looking
Over the lagoons of youth.
Life in age has been enduring,
Ay, and love has been alluring
As a candle the more brightly
Shining when not blown too lightly
By a passion beyond curing,
Save by some flower-telling truth. . .

Singing under tropic windows
Strays a northern troubadour,
Exiled from a land of labor,
Traveling with pipe and tabor,
Idlewild in seeking rapture,
And a wonder way to capture
Love—and make of it a neighbor
That resolves to move no more.