I looked up from my Writing

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.

Quote from a Hardy novel

“His parted lips were lips which spoke, not of love, but of millions of miles; those were eyes which habitually gazed, not into the depths of other eyes, but into other worlds. Within his temples dwelt thoughts, not of woman's looks, but of stellar aspects and the configuration of constellations.” (Two on a Tower)

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