Mariana Apr 2026

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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 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!" Mariana

And then she said, "My heart is dreary, He will not come," she said; She sigh'd, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" By Alfred, Lord Tennyson With blackest moss the