The Solitary Reaper

            By William Wordsworth

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 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.