Posted by: flip_flop September 3, 2008
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Wordsworth, once more.
The Solitary Reaper -- just for our old friend Oys.
Wordsworth, once more.
The Solitary Reaper -- just for our old friend Oys.
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 sorry, 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. |