This is one of my favourite William Wordsworth poems.   It always seems to ring true for me and occasionally screams at me, like today.

The Solitary Reaper ~ William Wordsworth

          From Memorials of a Tour in Scotland (1803)

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.

When you looked at me
I fell… hard
Breath released
I gasped, desperate
Clinging

We falter sideways
Finding solitude
Soulless eyes
Carnivorous hunger
Unreachable temptation

Salvation, milked
Turning over, then under
Wasteful hours
Spent searching
Hunger pains

Filled glass jar
Coal black irises
Shaking hands
Washed emotions
Me, staring into your eyes

Gypsy like strategy
wandering the streets
seeking out live music
eccentric company
a glass of liquid barley

multi genre movie-a-thons
while flipping albums
the old fashioned way
crushed grapes brimming
an invisible rimmed glass

lovingly writing, editing
dreaming of beings
in unnatural worlds
pounding at plastic keys
as mourning birds chirp

lingering on a concrete bench
splashed echos of silence
serendipity, laughter, raised voices
pebbles filling my shoes
as I find my path home

this sixth night
the comforting voice
of a dream gentleman
Jimmy Stewarts words
mixing with mine

no such thing
as a typical Saturday nite
from the vantage point
of a redheaded girl
drinking in life’s elixir

 (always inspired by Smiki)