Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,                                In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,                                In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,                                Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and

Together mix'd; 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 lye.