WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
542 The Solitary Reader
BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;
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;
1 saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
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