The Solitary Reaper
Behold
her, single in the field,
Yon
solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping
and singing by herself;
Stop
here, or gently pass!
Alone she
cuts and binds the grain,
And sings
a melancholy strain;
O listen!
for the Vale profound
Is
overflowing with the sound.
No
Nightingale did ever chaunt
More
welcome notes to weary bands
Of
travellers in some shady haunt,
Among
Arabian sands:
A voice
so thrilling ne'er was heard
In
spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking
the silence of the seas
Among the
farthest Hebrides.
Will no
one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps
the plaintive numbers flow
For old,
unhappy, far-off things,
And battles
long ago:
Or is it
some more humble lay,
Familiar
matter of to-day?
Some
natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has
been, and may be again?
Whate'er
the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her
song could have no ending;
I saw her
singing at her work,
And o'er
the sickle bending;—
I
listened, motionless and still;
And, as I
mounted up the hill,
The music
in my heart I bore,
Long
after it was heard no more.
--William Wordsworth
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