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 "Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?" —Surely it is not I she's wanting; Someone living here before— "Nobody's in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see." Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,— Have you seen her, any of you?— Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, And the garden showing through? Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly, Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,