The Musing Maiden

Why so often, silent one,
Do you steal away alone?”
Starting, half she turned her head,
And guiltily she said: —

“When the vane points to his far town
I go upon the hog-backed down,
And think the breeze that stroked his lip
Over my own may slip.

“When he walks at close of day
I ramble on the white highway,
And think it reaches to his feet:
A meditation sweet!

“When coasters hence to London sail
I watch their puffed wings waning pale;
His window opens near the quay;
Their coming he can see.

I go to meet the moon at night;
To mark the moon was our delight;
Up there our eyesights touch at will
If such he practise still.”