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Poem by Archibald Lampman


HOW still it is here in the woods. The trees
    Stand motionless, as if they do not dare
    To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
    Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
    Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
    Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
       The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree
    Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
       His five pure notes succeeding pensively. 

Archibald Lampman

Archibald Lampman's other poems:
  1. Why Do Ye Call the Poet Lonely
  2. Heat
  3. Among the Timothy
  4. Freedom
  5. An Impression

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • George Byron Solitude ("To sit on rocks, to muse oТer flood and fell")
  • 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")

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