I thought you a fire
    On Heath-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!