Solitude

Solitude, night—what pang is here? Are not stars your comrades? Clear

Majesty of those silent skies, Drowsed earth, deep silence of the worlds,

That moon, that wilderness and hill— White rose-beds all creation fill.

Sweet are the teardrops that have pearled Like gleaming gems, like stars, your eyes;

But what thing do you crave? All Nature, Oh my heart, is your fellow-creature.