She came by unknown ways, and stood
At evening in the fading wood,
which when the glowing hills were gone
Would as in a dream murmur on,
as she beside her camp-fire's glare
Sat as if in a vision there,
and felt the silence like a thing
In which her soul was functioning.
She was a poet maybe who
The world's impression dreamy drew
From her own heart in that strange air,
like one who had been everywhere
And with the stars and fire-lit trees
Did blend a thousand memories,
making that speck of light her home
Until the dewy dawn should come.
She well had seemed a phantom at
Some mystic work as lone she sat
Within her ring of charméd light,
who might step out into the night,
And in a mischief-making mood
Perturb the starry solitude
Until her fire burnt out, and then
Might creep back to her camp again,
and wrapped within her blanket with a resolution of never coming out again...