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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341698" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mariana</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WITH BLACKEST moss the flower-plots <br> Were thickly crusted, one and all: <br>The rusted nails fell from the knots <br> That held the pear to the gable-wall. <br>The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: <br> Unlifted was the clinking latch; <br> Weeded and worn the ancient thatch <br>Upon the lonely moated grange. <br> She only said, "My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her tears fell with the dews at even; <br> Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; <br>She could not look on the sweet heaven, <br> Either at morn or eventide. <br>After the flitting of the bats, <br> When thickest dark did trance the sky, <br> She drew her casement-curtain by, <br>And glanced athwart the glooming flats. <br> She only said, "My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the middle of the night, <br> Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: <br>The cock sung out an hour ere light: <br> From the dark fen the oxen's low <br>Came to her: without hope of change, <br> In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, <br> Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn <br>About the lonely moated grange. <br> She only said, "The day is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">About a stone-cast from the wall <br> A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, <br>And o'er it many, round and small, <br> The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. <br>Hard by a poplar shook alway, <br> All silver-green with gnarled bark: <br> For leagues no other tree did mark <br>The level waste, the rounding gray. <br> She only said, "My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And ever when the moon was low, <br> And the shrill winds were up and away <br>In the white curtain, to and fro, <br> She saw the gusty shadow sway. <br>But when the moon was very low, <br> And wild winds bound within their cell, <br> The shadow of the poplar fell <br>Upon her bed, across her brow. <br> She only said, "The night is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day within the dreamy house, <br> The doors upon their hinges creak'd; <br>The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse <br> Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, <br>Or from the crevice peer'd about. <br> Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, <br> Old footsteps trod the upper floors, <br>Old voices call'd her from without. <br> She only said, "My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not," she said; <br> She said, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!" </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, <br> The slow clock ticking, and the sound <br>Which to the wooing wind aloof <br> The poplar made, did all confound <br>Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour <br> When the thick-moted sunbeam lay <br> Athwart the chambers, and the day <br>Was sloping toward his western bower. <br> Then, said she, "I am very dreary, <br> He will not come," she said; <br> She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, <br> O God, that I were dead!" <br>.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Lord+Tennyson">Alfred Lord Tennyson</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341698" data-title="Mariana de Alfred Lord Tennyson" data-description="WITH BLACKEST moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn t..."></div> </div> </div>
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