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.

The **** is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
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!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
      The plowboy is whooping—anon-anon:
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
      The rain is over and gone!

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—
We ****** to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

"King he was to the realm of Nineva
In great halls that fairly shone forever.
Kaleidoscopic were hues of his blade,
Of burnished gold was it fairly made.
Diamonds, sapphires, pearls, and rubies
In fresh numbers were seen in his vase.
Ninety nine archers guarded the palace,
His horsemen swifter than comets of space,
Over wood, yonder hill, yonder vale, they'd race.

Eternally limpid yet ineffable was his lass's
Diamond-like eyes as dewdrops upon grass.
Winds of hate this beauty beheld and said nay
A beauty reflection as that in my wings must lay.
Roses, lavenders, lilacs, gardenias of the spring,
Daffodils of rolling hills unto her I'll bring.

A star-like diadem I'll press upon her gaily hair
Light buttons of pearl shalt bedight her dress so fair
Eternally mine shalt she be like as waves to sea or
Xylograph upon wood shalt be her soul to my soul.
And 'tis for this reason that all creatures know
Nineva's king since yon day turned cold as snow.
Diamond-like, so hardened his soul that now
Roves in a labyrinth of restless nostalgic winds
Outgribing here and there like wingless birds
Stuck in branches of night or shells neath the sands."


© Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA.
15th/DEC/2018

One day when closed shall be my book of life,
When I am hushed to eternal slumber
To rise and away soar to climes where strife
Of love hath no space to ever whisper,
In lands where tides of thy sweet memories
Might ebb no more unto shores of my heart
That culminated into smithereens
Since yon dead summer's day we fell apart
And thou, fair queen of stars, didst dim thy light
That ever shone upon shores of my mind
And enslaved me in dungeons dark as night
To sight no other star but ever blind!

    Oh hark! Like a wildly rolling river
    So shalt my love gush thy way forever.