Any wind but this—

That with remembrance of rain

Grown soft and pitiful, embraced me

As I walked homeward.

And any other look

Than the full-moon sheds to-night—

As though she bent like a mother

Above her sleeping children.

Not to be denied

The wind gropes over the house;

And now it has brushed aside the curtains

And walks about the room.

Too well, too well I know

Whence you have journeyed, O Wind!

And what the landscape of nestling hill and valley

That the moon eyes so lovingly.