“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 movеd in
And I came to be alone

“Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not comе 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 . .