VII

The slow clock ticking, and the sound

Which to the wooing wind aloof

      The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour

      When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

      Athwart the chambers, and the day

Was sloping toward his western bower.

            Then said she, "I am very dreary,

                  He will not come," she said;

            She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,

                  Oh God, that I were dead!"