Thomas Hardy — On Stinsford Hill at Midnight

I glimpsed a woman’s muslined form        &nbsp Sing-songing airily Against the moon; and still she sang,        &nbsp And took no heed of me. Another trice, and I beheld        &nbsp What first I had not scanned, That now and then she tapped and shook        &nbsp A timbrel in her hand. So late the hour, so white her drape,        &nbsp So strange the look it lent To that blank hill, I could not guess        &nbsp What phantastry it meant. Then burst I forth: “Why such from you?        &nbsp Are you so happy now?” Her voice swam on; nor did she show        &nbsp Thought of me anyhow. I called again: “Come nearer; much        &nbsp That kind of note I need!” The song kept softening, loudening on,        &nbsp In placid calm unheed. “What home is yours now?” then I said;        &nbsp “You seem to have no care.” But the wild wavering tune went forth        &nbsp As if I had not been there. “This world is dark, and where you are,”        &nbsp I said, “I cannot be!” But still the happy one sang on,        &nbsp And had no heed of me.