George Gordon Byron (1788 - 1824 / London / England)
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.
But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
Poet Other Poems
- A Spirit Passed Before Me
- Adieu, Adieu! My Native Land
- 'All Is Vanity,' Saith the Preacher
- And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair
- And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?
- Bride of Abydos, The
- By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and...
- Churchill's Grave
- Destruction of Sennacherib, The
- Epistle To Augusta
- Farewell To The Muse
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.