. Away with loneness--he whose winter bites, who haunts the wasted wilderness and shores, born in thunder on the misty moors; who, bred by wolves, with howling fills the nights. But bring his smooth browed sister Solitude, decked with autumnal charms and plenitude; with contemplation's brimming horn of flowers, and baskets graced with fruit to fill the hours; often you'll keep the company of dawn, whose veils of innocence the woods adorn; and sometimes there, with still and listening ear, we might the secret songs of nature hear, or by fountain sit, whose trickling sound is where forgetful music may be found; with closed eyes we'll feel it chase away the phantoms of the mind that haunt the day; and 'til the birds' soft choir the daylight greets, we'll walk along the cool and silent streets, that slumber in the dark with shutters down, until the traffic will the quietness drown; or we will walk the idle hours at night beneath the naked sky; the only light the lamps that blink beneath the smog and clouds; and night is human---thoughts arise in crowds in minds astir like beehives, while hearts swell like glow worms' tails; there unseen creatures dwell in graveyard, cricket green, and old inn, whose chants arise to sooth the daily din; we'll watch the botanical garden's calm cascades dance on the moonlit paths and palisades; hear murmurings of exotic plants and trees, stirred in the tingling darkness by the breeze; smell scents of herbs---of rosemary, sage and thyme, that make the air tell of a distant clime. But now I hear the mournful early train rousing night, and sigh of passing plane, as Solitude---to wintry chill you grow; I feel its sharp breath through my window blow, and round my door; the hand of loneness cold--- an anguish of the body---takes iron hold; so now the spring of company I yearn, but will to sister Solitude return. . . Chris is originally from Cornwall, England, but currently lives in Bristol. He works as an English teacher and also in catering.