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 travelers 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DELICACIES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP by THOMAS MOORE BETH GELERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND by WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER PATROLING BARNEGAT by WALT WHITMAN IN THE FOREST by ELINOR PETERSON ALLEN INVITES HIS NYMPH TO HIS COTTAGE by PHILIP AYRES THE LAST MAN: LIFE A GLASS WINDOW by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |