Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/76

 Oh cursed hand! Oh cursed blow! Oriana! Oh happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana!

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.