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The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,  
Yon solitary Highland Lass!  
Reaping and singing by herself;  
Stop here, or gently pass!   



















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 listen'd, motionless and still;  
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,  
Long after it was heard no more.
The Solitary Reaper - by William Wordsworth


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