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