 | Massachusetts and other poems |  |
47
LONELINESS.
Loneliness!'Tis not in deserts—not within the deep
And dark old forests, where the rising sun
Waketh no murmur, and his going down
Is silent—but the crowd—the rushing crowd
Is solitude. There is no voice
In the loud tumult of the city's throngs,
There is no communing of spirits there;
48
Each in his individual life bound up.
And he, the Pilgrim, with a lonely heart,
Broken on Fortune's wheel, he feels the dearth
Of mingling life. O, tell me not the woods
Are solitudes, while selfish men exist.
| Massachusetts and other poems | |