The Rain Imprinted The Step'S Wet Shine With Target-Circles That Quivered And Crossed As I Was Leaving This Porch Of Mine; When From Within There Swelled And Paused A Song'S Sweet Note; And Back I Turned, And Thought, "Here I'll Abide." The Step Shines Wet Beneath The Rain, Which Prints Its Circles As Heretofore; I Watch Them From The Porch Again, But No Song-Notes Within The Door Now Call To Me To Shun The Dripping Lea And Forth I Stride. Jan. 1914.