On Stinsford Hill at Midnight Thomas Hardy

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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.