388. The Solitary Reaper

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 chaunt

  More welcome notes to weary bands

  Of travellers in some shady haunt,

  Among Arabian sands:

  No sweeter voice was ever 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, till I had my fill;

  And, as I mounted up the hill,

  The music in my heart I bore

  Long after it was heard no more.