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Among the fields the camomile Seems blown mist in the lightning’s glare: Cool, rainy odors drench the air; Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare.

The way that I shall take to-night Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with double darkness, till, Between the boughs, a window’s light Shines out upon the hill.

The fence; and then the path that goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, Through puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate’s unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock.

Bright on the old-time flower-place The lamp streams through the foggy pane The door is opened to the rain: And in the door--her happy face And outstretched hands again.