I

With blackest moss the flowerplots

Were thickly crusted, one and all,

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the gardenwall.

The broken sheds looked 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!"