Poem for Saturday

The Solitary Reaper
By William Wordsworth

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 shrilling 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 listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

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Killer migraine. I hate everyone and everything right now. Report on day: discovered we can't get Bar Mitzvah souvenirs from vendor in time, scrambled to find new vendor, ran too late to go to lunch with . Wrote Next Gen review, which may not be coherent since I could barely see to type it: "Redemption, Part Two". Went to son's spring chorus/guitar ensemble concert:















Had nice evening with my parents and in-laws though will probably bleed out from an ulcer from six Advil taken in four hours to circumvent $9-a-pill Imitrex. Declaring that battle lost, taking pill. Want the storm to get here already, even if it means rain all weekend, so my brain barometer can go down. Night.