The Solitary Reaper 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 travelers in some shady haunt, Amid the cool and shadiest lands.
She sings of love, and the life of the soul; The world, her comforter.
- William Wordsworth