Ode to Solitude

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.