There is no creature loves me;
	And if I die no soul shall pity me.

Shakespeare.    

George Eliot.    

	On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh;
	The rocks moan wildly as it passes by;
	Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand,
	And not a flower adorns the dreary land.

Bryant.    

	I alone am left on earth!
	To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
	No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins.

Campbell.    

	Gone—flitted away,
	Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day!
	Gone, and a cloud in my heart.

Tennyson.    

	No one is so accursed by fate,
	No one so utterly desolate,
	But some heart, though unknown,
	Responds unto his own.

Longfellow.    

	What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
	What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
	To view each loved one blotted from life’s page,
	And be alone on earth, as I am now.

Byron.    

	Desolate! Life is so dreary and desolate.
	Women and men in the crowd meet and mingle,
	Yet with itself every soul standeth single,
	Deep out of sympathy moaning its moan;
	Holding and having its brief exultation;
	Making its lonesome and low lamentation;
	Fighting its terrible conflicts alone.

Alice Cary.    

	The fountain of my heart dried up within me,—
	With nought that loved me, and with nought to love,
	I stood upon the desert earth alone.
	And in that deep and utter agony,
	Though then, then even most unfit to die
	I fell upon my knees and prayed for death.

Maturin.    

	Unhappy he! who from the first of joys,
	Society, cut off, is left alone
	Amid this world of death. Day after day,
	Sad on the jutting eminence he sits,
	And views the main that ever toils below;
	Still fondly forming in the farthest verge,
	Where the round ether mixes with the wave,
	Ships, dim-discovered, dropping from the clouds;
	At evening, to the setting sun he turns
	A mournful eye, and down his dying heart
	Sinks helpless.

Thomson.