Solitude
Happy the mouse, whose wish and only care
A few paternal runways, never found
By hawk or cat, on his own lunching ground
Content enough to breath his native air.
His shelves with cracker crumbs and bread abound,
His fur is all he needs of fine attire,
His hours, days, years unnoticed may transpire,
His life is full of thought, his sleep is sound.
To meditate, unseen, unknown, to tire
Of life and enter unlamented death
Serenely, singing with his soul's last breath,
To steal away from here, I too require:
Without a mourner and without a stone.
© Kevin Berland, 1999
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