On Stinsford Hill at Midnight by Thomas Hardy

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.