AT MOONRISE AND ONWARDS

I thought you a fire

On Heron-Plantation Hill,

Dealing out mischief the most dire

To the chattels of men of hire

There in their vill.

But by and by

You turned a yellow-green,

Like a large glow-worm in the sky;

And then I could descry

Your mood and mien.

How well I know

Your furtive feminine shape!

As if reluctantly you show

You nude of cloud, and but by favour throw

Aside its drape...

— How many a year

Have you kept pace with me,

Wan Woman of the waste up there,

Behind a hedge, or the bare

Bough of a tree!

No novelty are you,

O Lady of all my time,

Veering unbid into my view

Whether I near Death's mew,

Or Life's top cyme!