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 Travellers 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 Listened, Motionless And Still; And, As I Mounted Up The Hill, The Music In My Heart I Bore, Long After It Was Heard No More.