The Solitary Reaper..by william Wordsworth

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 sorry, 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. Noone..and I mean noone in this world can describe beauty in such a way. Wordsworth is magical..Ohh..I yearn to have a way with words like this