Wind prowls through my house tonight
Like a lost soul seeking a place to lie–
To rest forever.
Stealthily he enters my room,
Moves a curtain,
Shakes each window
Lifts a paper from the table by my bed
And throws it in disgust upon the floor,
Where in the morning it will bear
Mute evidence to the prowler of the night.
He touches my face with ghostly fingers,
Clammy, yet incredibly gentle,
Then moans tiredly and moves on to other rooms,
Perhaps to other houses than mine,
— Still unsatisfied.
April 9, 1939