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 chant
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.
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her signing 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.
by William Wordsworth