Ode on solitude
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Countent to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose filds filds with bread,
Whose flocks supply hin attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest! Who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
written by: Alexander Pope
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