 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“You seem to have no care.”
But the wild wavering tune went forth
As if I had not been there.
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“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.
I said, “I cannot be!”
But still the happy one sang on,
And had no heed of me.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |