I

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!"