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.     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.