The speaker lives alone and is visited nightly by a ghostly presence called “Thin Rain.” The name fits: the figure is thin as thread, grey-shawled, and nearly transparent, with glimmering eyes and a soft, repeating question. She seems to be looking for someone who lived in the house before, not for the current resident. The speaker feels both curious and unsettled—at one moment inviting the presence in to see that no one else is there, at another telling it to hush and stay out, insisting, “Nobody’s with me, nor has been.” The mood is quiet, eerie, and lonely rather than frightening. Both figures seem isolated: the speaker came to be alone, and the wraith keeps drifting back to the same doors and windows, searching for someone who is no longer there. That longing stays unresolved, making the haunting feel sad as much as strange.
Wraith — Summary
"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, Asking something, asking it over, If you get a sound from her.-- Ever see her, any of you?-- Strangest thing I've ever known,-- Every night since I moved in, And I came to be alone. "Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! You may not come in! This is I that you hear rocking; Nobody's with me, nor has been!" Curious, how she tried the window,-- Odd, the way she tries the door,-- Wonder just what sort of people Could have had this house before . . .