Solitude

The ceaseless hum of me—the dusty streets,
     Crowded with multitudinous life—the din
     Of toil and traffic—and the wo and sin,
The dweller in the populous city meets—
These have I left to seek the cool retreats
     Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers
     Builded by Nature’s hand, inlaid with flowers,
And roofed with ivy, on the mossy seats
     Reclining, I can while away the hours
In sweetest converse with old books, or give
My thoughts to God—or fancies fugitive
     Indulge, while over me their radiant showers
Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down,
And thanks to HIM my meditations crown!