The Solitary Reper

    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 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.