The Solitary Reaper

Next to Glove and the Lions, this is my favorite poem.

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 meloncholy 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 heard
in springtime 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 or may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have noending;
I saw her singing at 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.

-- William Wordsworth