SolitudeThere is a charm in Solitude that cheersA feeling that the world knows nothing ofA green delight the wounded mind endearsAfter the hustling world is broken offWhose whole delight was crime at good to scoffGreen solitude his prison pleasure yieldsThe bitch fox heeds him not -- birds seem to laughHe lives the Crusoe of his lonely fieldsWhich dark green oaks his noontide leisure shields
John Clare