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 today?
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.
William Wordsworth's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (The Reaper by William Wordsworth )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
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Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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