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