If I but set my casement high
Where none peer in at me,
I shall look only at the sky
And the fair top of the tree.
I shall forget the sorry things
The swallows do not tell;
I shall not see the wounded wings
Of the little bird that fell.
And if below there crawls a road,
Where dusty travelers go,
Groaning beneath a weary load—
Why, I shall never know.
I can pretend there is no sin,
No pain and misery,
If I gaze out where none look in
To read the heart of me.