Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/20



blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead!"