It isn't sun, nor sea, nor sky.
It's none of these, she thinks.
It's not wild, impetuous rivers,
Where she stands on the brink.

It isn't crowds, nor gaiety,
Nor cities loud and bright.
It's not country air, not woodsmoke,
Nor the glow of candlelight.

It's the struggle in the daily grind,
Each hour, each day, each week,
To somehow, find the peace of mind,
They each, must sometimes seek.

To close her eyes in meditation,
To steal her ears against the din.
To find a moment, still and solemn,
In this noisy world, she's in.

To know, at last, the solitude,
For which she's compelled to look,
And dwell upon the written page,
Within the covers of a book.