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.