Alfred Lord Tennyson

With blackest moss the flower-pots
    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 tatch
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!"