A lonely reaper looking for poetry

Wordsworth, the lonely reaper, look! The girl on the plateau is alone in the field. Singing while harvesting. Please stop or walk quietly! She was cut and tied there alone, and her singing was very sad; Listen! You listen to her singing, echoing in the deep canyon for a long time. In the desolate Arabian desert, tired travelers rest by the shade, and nightingales sing at this moment, which is not as warm as this song; In the farthest Hebrides, the cuckoo's voice awakened the spring and broke the silence of the sea, which was not as touching as this song. Who can tell me what she is singing? Maybe she is mourning the past, singing about the unfortunate past and the battlefield long ago? Maybe she sang an ordinary song, and today's life is used to it? She sang about the sadness and pain in life, which happened before and will happen again? No matter what the girl is singing, the song seems endless; I saw her bending down with a sickle, and I saw her singing while working. I listened with bated breath until I climbed the mountain. Although music has disappeared in my ears, it has stayed in my heart for a long time.