I looked up from my writing,
And gave a start to see,
As if rapt in my inditing,
The moon's full gaze on me.
Her meditative misty head
Was spectral in its air,
And I involuntarily said,
'What are you doing there?'
‘Oh, I've been scanning pond and hole
And waterway hereabout
For the body of one with a sunken soul
Who has put his life-light out.
‘Did you hear his frenzied tattle?
It was sorrow for his son
Who is slain in brutish battle,
Though he has injured none.
‘And now I am curious to look
Into the blinkered mind
Of one who wants to write a book
In a world of such a kind.’
Her temper overwrought me,
And I edged to shun her view,
For I felt assured she thought me
One who should drown him too.
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