At Moonrise and Onwards

      I thought you a fire

   On Heron-Plantation Hill,

Dealing out mischief the most dire

   To the chattels of men of hire

      There in their vill.

      But by and by

   You turned a yellow-green,

Like a large glow-worm in the sky;

   And then I could descry

      Your mood and mien.

      How well I know

   Your furtive feminine shape!

As if reluctantly you show

   You nude of cloud, and but by favour throw

      Aside its drape . . .

     -- How many a year

   Have you kept pace with me,

Wan Woman of the waste up there,

   Behind a hedge, or the bare

      Bough of a tree!

      No novelty are you,

   O Lady of all my time,

Veering unbid into my view

   Whether I near Death's mew,

      Or Life's top cyme!