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.
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