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When ye therefore shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place, (whoso readeth, let him understand:) Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains: Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take any thing out of his house: Neither let him which is in the field return back to take his clothes. - Bible, Matthew (ch. XXIV, v. 15-18) 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. - William Cullen Bryant None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron), Childe Harold (canto II, st. 24) I alone am left on earth! To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. - Thomas Campbell 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, Life No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence. - George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans Cross) No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Endymion 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. - Charles Robert Maturin My desolation does begin to make A better life. - William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra (Cleopatra at V, ii) 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. - James Thomson (1)
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