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 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.
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