The Solitary Reaper, by William Wordsworth

[trinkie]

The Solitary Reaper
By William Wordsworth 1770 – 1850

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 chant,
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 today ?
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 listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.