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!