A Solitary Reaper

A Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary highland lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Line Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heardIn 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.

A Solitary Reaper