✪✪✪ Solitude-poem

Saturday, October 09, 2021 2:26:55 PM

Solitude-poem



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SOLITUDE - BY - ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's 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 world's 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!

Solitude To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto Don Juan: Canto Murray To Dr. I, Epig. Ah wretched, and too solitary he — — Who loves not his own company! O Solitude, first state of human-kind! As soon as two alas! Though God himself, through countless ages thee — — His sole companion chose to be, — — Thee, sacred Solitude alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree — — — Sprang from the trunk of one.

Thou though men think thine an unactive part — — Dost break and tame th' unruly heart, — — Which else would know no settled pace, Making it move well managed by thy art, — — — With swiftness and with grace. Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light, — — Dost like a burning-glass unite, — — Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright — — — And noble fires beget. Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see — — The monster London laugh at me: — — I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at misery, — — — But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, — — And all the fools that crowd thee so, — — Even thou who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, — — — A solitude almost. Rate this poem:.

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