Classic Poem

Houses are swaying and swimming light-grey, with damp gardens, silvery lighted streets; and people on thresholds of doors are bowing, smiling, fading, appearing and vanishing through the rainbow of tears .
A child is sitting at the window. In the moonlight the hair flows like dark rain. Stubbornly and clearly the eyes seek, as through a forest, my own, faraway figure .
O, why dost thou tremble, child, when I come toward thee?