Among The Fields The Camomile Seems Blown Mist In The Lightning'S Glare: Cool, Rainy Odors Drench The Air; Night Speaks Above; The Angry Smile Of Storm Within Her Stare. The Way That I Shall Take To-Night Is Through The Wood Whose Branches Fill The Road With Double Darkness, Till, Between The Boughs, A Window'S Light Shines Out Upon The Hill. The Fence; And Then The Path That Goes Around A Trailer-Tangled Rock, Through Puckered Pink And Hollyhock, Unto A Latch-Gate'S Unkempt Rose, And Door Whereat I Knock. Bright On The Oldtime Flower Place The Lamp Streams Through The Foggy Pane; The Door Is Opened To The Rain: And In The Door Her Happy Face And Outstretched Arms Again.