I accidentally learned something today courtesy of Althouse.  I learned for the first time of a poem called Ode on Solitude by an English poet named Alexander Pope (1688-1744).

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

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

I am a relatively solitary person (as much as one can be these days), and prefer calm over excitment.  Since the poem struck a chord with me I thought that sharing it might give you, the reader, some insight into who I am and that act of sharing might also broaden my own insight into who I am.

Alexander Pope wrote this poem at the age of 12.