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Solitude

by 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.

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