On Stinsford Hill at Midnight

I glimpsed a woman's muslined form
Sing-songing airily
Against the moon; and still she sang,
And took no heed of me.

Another trice, and I beheld
What first I had not scanned,
That now and then she tapped and shook
A timbrel in her hand.

So late the hour, so white her drape,
So strange the look it lent
To that blank hill, I could not guess
What phantastry it meant.

Then burst I forth: ‘Why such from you?
Are you so happy now?’
Her voice swam on; nor did she show
Thought of me anyhow.

I called again: ‘Come nearer; much
That kind of note I need!’
The song kept softening, loudening on,
In placid calm unheed.

‘What home is yours now?’ then I said;
‘You seem to have no care.’
But the wild wavering tune went forth
As if I had not been there.

‘This world is dark, and where you are,’
I said, ‘I cannot be!’
But still the happy one sang on,
And had no heed of me.
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