Last night, through driven mist and beating rain,
One came whose feet had known the path before;
The little Love we buried stood again
And sobbed beside my door.

What could I do, oh foolish woman heart,
But draw him in and hold him safe and warm?
Why had Death loosed him, helpless and apart,
To wander in the storm?

O lips and hands that I have wanted most!
My arms were open! Be it wrong or right,
Who could turn such a lonely little ghost
Adrift into the night?