To Solitude

Away with Loneness - he whose winter bites,

who haunts the wasted wilderness and shores,

born in thunder on the misty moors;

who, bred by wolves, with howling fills the nights.

But bring his smooth-browed sister Solitude,

decked with autumnal charms and plenitude,

with contemplation's brimming horn of flowers,

and baskets graced with fruit to fill the hours.

Often you'll keep the company of dawn

whose veils of innocence the woods adorn,

and sometimes there, with still and listening ear,

we might the secret songs of nature hear,

or by a fountain sit, whose trickling sound

is where forgetful music may be found.

With closed eyes we'll feel it chase away

the phantoms of the mind that haunt the day.

And while the birds' soft choir the morning greets,

we'll walk along the cool and silent streets

that slumber in the mist with shutters down,

until the traffic will the quietness drown.

Or else we'll walk the idle hours at night

beneath the naked sky - the only light

the lamps that blink beneath the smog and clouds;

and night is human - thoughts arise in crowds

in minds astir like beehives, while hearts swell

like glow-worms' tails. There eager creatures dwell

by graveyard, cricket green, and timbered inn,

whose chants arise to sooth the daily din.

We'll watch the botanical garden's calm cascades

dance by the moonlit paths and palisades;

hear murmurings of exotic plants and trees

stirred in the tingling darkness by the breeze;

smell scents of herbs - of rosemary, sage and thyme,

that make the air tell of a distant clime.

But now I hear the mournful sounding train

rousing night, and sigh of passing plane,

as Solitude - to wintry chill you grow.

I feel its sharp breath through my window blow,

and round my door; the hand of Loneness cold -

an anguish of the body - takes iron hold.

And so the spring of company I yearn,

but will to sister Solitude return.