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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 sound   No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird. Breading the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.   Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For ol, 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, ...

Going for water The well was dry beside the door And so went with pail and can, Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran;   Not loath to have excuse to go, Because the Autumn eve was fair Though chill because the fields were ours, And by the brook our woods were there,   We ran as if to meet the moon That slowly dawned behind the trees, The barren boughs without the leaves, Without the birds, without the breeze,   But once within the wood, we paused Like gnomes that hid us from the moon, Ready to run to hiding new With laughter when she found us soon.   Each laid on other a staying hand To listen ere we dared to look, And in the hush we joined to make We heard, we knew we heard the brook   A note as from a single place, A slender tinkling fall that made Now drops that floated on the pool Like pearls and now a silver blade   Robert Frost     Robert Frost...

Ode: To Autumn   Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.   Who hath not seen thee oft amid they store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor; Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou a dost keep Steady they laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient loo...