The Solitary Reaper
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.
William Wordsworth
Vous avez aimé cette poésie ? faites la connaître !
D'autres poésies de William Wordsworth
"A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags,"
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and...
"A Whirl-Blast from Behind the Hill"
A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood...
"Calm is all Nature as a Resting Wheel."
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are...
"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er...
"It was an April morning: fresh and clear"
It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet,...
"She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways"
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs...
"She Was a Phantom of Delight"
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon...
"Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known"
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to...
"Surprised by Joy--Impatient as the Wind"
Surprised by joy impatient as the Wind
I turned to share...
"The World Is To Much With Us; Late and Soon"
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting...
Précédentes poésies
Written on the Day that Mr Leigh Hunt Left Prison
What though, for showing truth to flattered state,
Kind...
Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the...
Written On A Blank Space At The End Of Chaucer's Tale Of The Flowre And The Lefe
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied...
Written on a Blank Space
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied...
Written Before Re-Reading King Lear
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed...
