Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain；O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands；A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor 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 sangAs 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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