William Wordsworth
Behold her, singing in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass;
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and bind the grain,
And singing 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 travelers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands;
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the forest Hebrides.
Well no one tell me what she sings ?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old ,unhappy ,for-off things,
Or is it some humble lay,
some nature sorrow ,loss ,or pain,
That has been ,and may-be again ?
What'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 mount up the hill,
The music in my heart bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
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