To live alone where man nor beast e'er stood,
Ten-thousand miles beyond the site of home;
To walk at night the catacombs of Rome,
Or dwell within some deep death-haunted wood;
To feel like Bonaparte with power endued,
Yet doomed to sleep beneath the starry dome,
And listen to the ocean chafe and foam,—
Not this, not all of these, is solitude.
But oh, to be alone within the hive
Of teeming life, where thousands live and move
And have their shallow beings,— there to strive
With doubt and faith, and feel the soul expand
Beyond the utmost reach of those we love,
And know that they can never understand.