THE SOLITARY REAPER

by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

      EHOLD 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 shrilling 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 listen'd, motionless and still;
      And, as I mounted up the hill,
      The music in my heart I bore,
      Long after it was heard no more.

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