Had I but lived when music-loving Pan
Still played his flute amid the whispering reeds,
When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran,
And—symbolizing well man's earlier creeds—
A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair,
Portrayed the gods, and led men's thoughts to prayer,

I would have sought some beautiful retreat,
Remote from cities and the din of men,—
Some tranquil shore where lake and forest meet
By limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen,
And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude,
A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude!

How hath a heedless world neglected thee,
Thou coy divinity, too shy and proud
To sue for followers from those who see
Attraction merely in the strenuous crowd!
For only those can know thee, as thou art,
Who wisely seek and study thee … apart.

No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage,
No Asian founder of a faith divine,
No bard, or writer of inspired page
Hath ever failed to worship at thy shrine,
O Nourisher of steadfast self-control,
Of noble thoughts, of loftiness of soul!

Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave,
No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask,
Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave,
But only those who, faithful to life's task,
Must yet at times look upward from the clod,
And seek through thee acquaintanceship with God.