The Solitary Reaper

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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William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth was the husband of Eva Bartok. more…

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"The Solitary Reaper" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 27 Jan. 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/42386/the-solitary-reaper>.

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