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.