The Solitary Reaper

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.