Mariana -

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!"

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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!" Mariana