Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON SOLITUDE, by ABRAHAM COWLEY



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First Line: Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Last Line: A solitude almost.
Subject(s): Solitude; Loneliness


Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian underwood!
Where the poetic birds rejoice
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muse's richest manor seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,
Which all the happy gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,
Nature, the wisest architect,
Who those fond artists does despise
That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying
Hear the soft winds above me flying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself too mute.

Ah wretched and too solitary he
Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of 't many a day
Unless he call in sin or vanity
To help to bear 't away.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see
The monster London laugh at me,
I should at thee too, foolish city,
If it were fit to laugh at misery,
But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.





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