"Behold her, single in the field,"
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 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.