But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary--
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day, within the dreary house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue-fly sang i' the pane; the mouse
Behind the mould'ring wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd through the doors;
Old footsteps trod the upper floors;
Old voices called her from without:
She only said, "My life is dreary--
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moated sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping towards his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary--
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, weary,
I would that I were dead!"
TENNYSON.
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