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.