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. 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. William Wordsworth Wordsworth is a brilliant poet who could give extraordinary touches to ordinary things. I love this poem of his which talks about a lady who was reaping all alone. The whole poem is thoroughly enjoyable. I love the way he says ,"Either listen to the reapers song silently or just move on without disturbing her." I also like the part where he tries to guess what the content of the song must be. The last two lines are the best of the lot . Nobody else could have said it better. How well he expresses that the music remained etched in his heart for so long after he had heard it. Amazing poet.