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The Solitary Reaper (William Wordsworth, 1805)

4/10/2017

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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.
 


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