The poet Robert Francis liked being alone. In my mind he wrote the great poem about people who are like that. It begins:
His willingness to be alone,
His happiness in being alone,
Was what they never could forgive.
Either he loved his loneliness
Too much or loved his friends too little.
And didn’t one imply the other?
Of course, the poet’s friends didn’t really want to know where he had been all week and what he had been doing. They did not really want to know what had been on his mind. They wanted him to want to know what was on theirs.
They wanted to know where he’d been all week and what he’d been doing — but not really.
As if they hoped and feared to find
That all his secret wealth was both
Within and far beyond their reach.
I love the poem because I am one of those people who cannot see how a person can be of any use to anyone else without spending some time alone.
• Source: Robert Francis, “His Wealth”; Poetry Magazine, August 1946, pp. 246-7. It’s here:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=68&issue=5&page=10
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