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 today? <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-reaper/
