Ode on Solitude
Happy
the
man,
whose
wish
and
care
A
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
find
Hours,
days,
and
years
slide
soft
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,
unseen,
unknown;
Thus
unlamented
let
me
die;
Steal
from
the
world,
and
not
a
stone
Tell
where
I
lye.
