The Reaper in the Fields of Hay

In fields of spring-time old
a poet bold.

I saw a sad and
lonely highland lass
reaping, weeping and singing
in the fields of hay
where she lay,
with sickle and blade
binding her grain
to a melancholy strain
of a nightingale,
who lost his way
singing a sad refrain
to take away her pain.

As I look back upon that day
from high up on the hill,
I bare a song within my heart-
A sweet desire that she might hear
within the glades in May.

The poet, not bold enough to say-
“I fell in love with you that day”.