The Song Of An Angel

 I saw her singing at her work,

And over the sickle bending;

I listened, motionless and emotionless and still 

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

A voice so thrilling never was heard

In spring time from the cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas.

Whatever the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending:

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Weeping and wearying and wailing

Tears streaming down like stream 

Reaping and singing standing 

All by herself stop here, or gently pass!

Alone cuts and binds the grain,

And sings melancholy strain;

O listen! for the vale profound 

Is overflowing with the sound. 

See related poems 

To my modest mistress 

Coming of the saint