The Solitary Reaper

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;

Oh, listen! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant

So sweetly to reposing bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In springtime 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 listened motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore

Long after it was heard no more.