by 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 . . .

Monadnock Valley Press > Millay