其他
华兹华斯《孤独的刈麦女》
Behold Her, single in the field,
Reaping and singing by herself;
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 travelers in some shady haunt,
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
Or is it some more humble lay,
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,
I listened, motionless and still;
Long after it was heard no more.
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