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.