(George Gordon Byron)


To sit on rocks, to muse oer flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forests shady scene,
Where things that own not mans dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath neer or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone oer steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, tis but to hold
Converse with Natures charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the worlds tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

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