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