I Have Not Loved The World, Nor

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

The Devil Hath Not, In All His Quiver's Choice, An Arrow For The Heart Like A Sweet Voice.

Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray Flits The Shade Of Power.

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.