ODE ON SOLITUDE by Keats
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breath his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds wit milk, whose fileds with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
And in winter fire.
Blessed who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sllep by night, study and ease;
Together mixed: sweet recreation,
And innoncence 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.
-Keats