Solitary Reaper, The

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 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.

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