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 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!'

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