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Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
What hand but would a garland cull
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Thy Father, any thing to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
To give new pleasure like the past,
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
No sweeter voice was ever 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?
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
Or is it some more humble lay,
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
WRITTEN IN MARCH,
While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.
THE Cock is crowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!