"Solitude", by Lewis Carroll

SOLITUDE

I love the stillness of the wood :

I love the music of the rill :

I love to couch in pensive mood

Upon some silent hill.

Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees,

The silver-crested ripples pass ;

And, like a mimic brook, the breeze

Whispers among the grass.

Here from the world I win release,

Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,

Break in to mar the holy peace

Of this great solitude.

Here may the silent tears I weep

Lull the vexed spirit into rest,

As infants sob themselves to sleep

Upon a mother’s breast.

But when the bitter hour is gone,

And the keen throbbing pangs are still,

Oh sweetest then to couch alone

Upon some silent hill !

To live in joys that once have been,

To put the cold world out of sight,

And deck life’s drear and barren scene

With hues of rainbow-light.

For what to man the gift of breath,

If sorrow be his lot below ;

If all the day that ends in death

Be dark with clouds of woe ?

Shall the poor transport of an hour

Repay long years of sore distress —

The fragrance of a lonely flower

Make glad the wilderness ?

Ye golden hours of Life’s young spring,

Of innocence, of love and truth !

Bright, beyond all imagining,

Thou fairy-dream of youth !

I’d give all wealth that years have piled,

The slow result of Life’s decay,

To be once more a little child

For one bright summer-day.

March 16, 1853

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