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The Solitary Reaper<br>William Wordsworth<br><br>Behold her, single in the field, <br>Yon solitary Highland Lass! <br>Reaping and singing by herself; <br>Stop here, or gently pass! <br>Alone she cuts and binds the grain, <br>And sings a melancholy strain; <br>O listen! for the Vale profound <br>Is overflowing with the sound. <br><br>No Nightingale did ever chaunt <br>More welcome notes to weary bands <br>Of travellers in some shady haunt, <br>Among Arabian sands: <br>A voice so thrilling ne&`&er was heard <br>In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, <br>Breaking the silence of the seas <br>Among the farthest Hebrides. <br><br>Will no one tell me what she sings?— <br>Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow <br>For old, unhappy, far-off things, <br>And battles long ago: <br>Or is it some more humble lay, <br>Familiar matter of to-day? <br>Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, <br>That has been, and may be again? <br><br>Whate&`&er the theme, the Maiden sang <br>As if her song could have no ending; ...