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 (1688-1744)
.jpg)
Alexander Pope is one of my favourite poets. I once had a literature instructor who said he was one of the "near greats" and would never be considered great because he wrote too clearly and there were no ambiguities about which scholars could argue!
ReplyDeleteCanadian Chickadee