Fog

What grave has cracked and let this frail thing out,

To press its poor face to the window-pane;

Or, head hidden in frayed cloak, to drift about

The mallow bush, then out to the wet lane?

Long-closeted scents across the drippings break,

Of violet petunias blowing there,

A shred of mint, mixed with whatever ache

Old springs have left behind wedged tight in air.

Small, aged things peer in, ready to slip

Into the chairs, and watch and stare apace;

The house has loosened from its grasp of yore

Dark-hoarded tales. Were I, finger on lip,

To climb the stair, might I not find the place

Turned all to huddled shape, white on the floor?