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 The Solitary Reaper  William Wordsworth (1770-1850) 1st semester Foundation -English  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,  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