Madison Cawein

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