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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