Retirement Poem by John Bowring

Happy is he who knows not solitude!
The hour when to the world he seems alone
Is spent with God!-All cares, all passions lost
In most sublime abstraction. Then his soul,
Too joyous to be bound to earth, upsoars
And wings its glorious passage to an orb
Beyond philosophy's proud ken,-the throne
Where the Divinity sits clad in light,
And gives his spirit welcome! he forgets
That he is wrapt in mortal clay-becomes
A presence all ethereal, lifts his eye
Undazzled tow'rds the smiles of heavenly love,
And takes his seat with angels.-
O the ineffable beatitude,
Could it but last!-But no! too soon opprest
With the vast blessedness, and dragg'd, alas!
By mortal weakness from its height of joy,
The soul sinks down to this substantial world,
And is a clod again!