For other versions of this work, see Solitude (Pope).
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 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
Horn's, days, and years slide soft away10
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 doth 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.20
Pope, in his 12th year.