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