Hence in solitude, or that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart.

Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music lest it should not findAn echo in another's mind,While the touch of Nature's artHarmonizes heart to heart.

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.

I love tranquil solitude.

I love all waste and solitary places.