A poem by William Wordsworth:-
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 chant
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 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 ?
Same natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That had 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’re the sickle bending;
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart l bore,
Long after it was hear more.
