5049 Poem: Solitude by Alexander Pope

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care	
A few paternal acres bound,	
Content to breathe his native air	
            In his own ground.	
 
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,	       
Whose flocks supply him with attire;	
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,	
            In winter fire.	
 
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find	
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away	       
In health of body, peace of mind,	
            Quiet by day.	
 
Sound sleep by night; study and ease	
Together mix'd, sweet recreation,	
And innocence, which most does please	        
            With meditation.	
 
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;	
Thus unlamented let me die;	
Steal from the world, and not a stone	
            Tell where I lie.