Thomas Hardy
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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.