My Blog is turning out to be a collection of poems nowadays. But what the hell, it is my wish and I can put whatever I want!!! The poem that follows is a lovely work by William Wordsworth. This remains fresh in my heart because this is one of my Dad's favourite poems. In my childhood days he used to recite this to me often, hoping that I could recite it back to him with the same fervor and passion. Though I have not managed to do that, the least I can do is put this poem in my blog as my personal collection, for all to read and enjoy. So here it goes:
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