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Poem by 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!

George Gordon Byron

George Gordon Byron's other poems:
  1. Epitaph
  2. Churchills Grave
  3. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
  4. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
  5. To the Earl of Clare

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Alan Milne Solitude ("I have a house where I go")
  • George Crabbe Solitude ("Free from envy, strife and sorrow")
  • John Newman Solitude ("There is in stillness oft a magic power")
  • Henry White Solitude ("It is not that my lot is low")
  • Archibald Lampman Solitude ("HOW still it is here in the woods. The trees")

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