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!