On Martock Moor


My deep-dyed husband trusts me,
He feels his mastery sure,
Although I leave his evening hearth
To walk upon the moor.


— I had what wealth I needed,
And of gay gowns a score,
And yet I left my husband's house
To muse upon the moor.


O how I loved a dear one
Who, save in soul, was poor!
O how I loved the man who met
Me nightly on the moor.


I'd feather-beds and couches,
And carpets for the floor,
Yet brighter to me was, at eves,
The bareness of the moor.


There was a dogging figure,
There was a hiss of " Whore!"
There was a flounce at Weir-water
One night upon the moor. . . .


Yet do I haunt there, knowing
By rote each rill's low pour,
But only a fitful phantom now
Meets me upon the moor.
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