On Stinsford Hill at Midnight Thomas Hardy

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.