Solitude

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: 2 A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more.

O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

I praise the Frenchman [La Bruyère], his remark was shrewd— How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat Whom I may whisper—solitude is sweet.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

For solitude sometimes is best society, And short retirement urges sweet return.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang’d To hoarse or mute, though fall’n on evil days, On evil days though fall’n, and evil tongues; In darkness, and with dangers compass’d round, And solitude.

Virtue could see to do what Virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom’s self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, Where, with her best nurse Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings.

By all means use sometimes to be alone.

Society is no comfort To one not sociable.

What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any compaignye.

What is needed is, in the end, simply this: solitude, great inner solitude.

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

The solitude of writing is … quite frightening. It’s close sometimes to madness, one just disappears for a day and loses touch.

As a writer you are free. You are about the freest person that ever was. Your freedom is what you have bought with your solitude.

Artists never thrive in colonies. Ants do. What the budding artist needs is the privilege of wrestling with his problems in solitude—and now and then a piece of red meat.

Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.

Men and women -- even man and wife are foreigners. Each has reserves that the other cannot enter into, nor understand. These have the effect of frontiers.

The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself.

Be good and you will be lonely.

If you can't stand solitude, perhaps others find you boring as well.

We all have forests on our minds. Forests unexplored, unending. Each one of us gets lost in the forest, every night, alone.

While you are alone you are entirely your own master and if you have one companion you are but half your own, and the less so in proportion to the indiscretion of his behavior.

When you are alone you are all your own.