IV

About a stonecast from the wall,

A sluice with blackened waters slept,

And o'er it many, round and small,

The clustered marishmosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silvergreen with gnarled bark,

For leagues no other tree did dark

The level waste, the rounding grey.

She only said, "My life is dreary,

He cometh not," she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"