O solitude, holy and calm!
From tumult and crowds breaking free,
I fly, sick and sad, for the balm
I find given only by thee.
Too oft from thy peace I depart,
Kind guardian, friend of my soul,—
And then bring an earth-wounded heart
For thee to bind up and make whole.
My spirit, now worn and oppressed,
Her wings in thy bosom hath furled,
To sink, as a bird in its nest,
Away from a cold, faithless world!
Alarmed at the shade and the chill,
That o'er me its visions have cast,
I here would lie lowly and still,
Till sorrow's dark night hours are past.
And then, from the dust may I rise,
To mount, as the lark from her sod;
And sing, as the morn of my skies
Appears in the smile of my God.
O solitude, sacred and sweet;
Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie,
Earth's baubles are under my feet—
My heart and its treasure, on high.