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Tuesday, 10 July 2012

Ode on solitude

Ode on solitude
Alexander the Pope (1688-1744)

How happy he, who free from care
The rage of court, and noise of towns;
Contented breathes his native air
In his own ground

Whose herds with milk, whose field with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attires,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

BLest! Who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days and years slide swift away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation
And innocence , which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus  let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie

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