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George Gordon Byron - Solitude
Work rating: Medium

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!
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