By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, Ceaselessly suck'd a labouring sound, By which the door was ever wound, The doors that knew no coming day. 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
"Mariana in the moated grange." — Measure for Measure By Alfred, Lord Tennyson About a stone-cast from