“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.”
Edna St. Vincent Millay
“THIN Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?”
-Surely it is not I she’s wanting;
Someone living here before-
“Nobody’s in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see.”
Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers-
Have you seen her, any of you?
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?
Glimmering eyes–and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.
Ever see her, any of you?
Strangest thing I’ve ever known-
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.
“Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody’s with me, nor has been!”
Curious, how she tried the window-
Odd, the way she tries the door-
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before…