Ode to Solitude

Alexander Pope (1688–1744)

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds 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 unconcernedly 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 mixed; 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.