The Solitary Reaper

By William Wordsworth

1770-1850

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.

DayPoems Poem No. 480
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/480.html">The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

Poets  Poems