Stevens Again

Another Stevens' poem I really like. It seems uncharacteristically personal.

The Night-Wind of August

The night-wind of August
is like an old mother to me.
It comforts me.
I rest in it,
as one would rest,
if one could,
once again—
it moves about, quietly
and attentively.
Its old hands touch me.
Its breath touches me.
But sometimes its breath is a little cold,
just a little,
and I know
that it is only the night-wind.