Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
  A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
                 In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
  Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
                 In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
  Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
                 Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
  Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, 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.

--Alexander Pope