Pope’s Ode to solitude
"How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breaths his native air,
In his own grounds.
"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 swift 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, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie."
(Pope, it is said, wrote this gem of a poem at the age of 12. It is undoubtedly one of the 100 best poems of the English language during the last five hundred years).
My Reply
To be happy how much I try,
From birth to this day but why,
Have I have not been able to,
Succeed in my efforts -- I sigh...
I am not fascinated by this world,
Its temporal gains I don't desire,
I shun the falsehood on which it thrives,
And the vanity of people with fingers curled.
To me contentment is not peace,
The restless mind and heart don't cease,
To keep the soul and body engaged in tasks,
Till the day when my blood will freeze.
For, what if I am lamented or not:
Nothing is mine, aught is naught,
I was better off when I didn't come here,
Does it matter if I am remembered or not?
This was added more than four years later:
To live for others is the greatest good,
Which I found out after years had passed,
And to make our loved ones happy, carefree,
Is all that matters for now, for good.
By
( Emmenay )
