Now read the poem.
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 ?
Same 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.
About the Poet
William Wordsworth was born on 7th April 1770, in Cockermouth in the Lake District,
England. When many poets still wrote about ancient heroes in their grandiloquent
style, Wordsworth focused on nature, children, the poor, common people and used
ordinary words to express his feelings. He defined poetry as "the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings" arising from "emotions recollected in tranquility". He
died at Rydal Mount on April 23, 1850.
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