Mariana, 1851
by Sir John Everett Millais
Oil on canvas

Mariana
by Alfred Lloyd Tennyson (1809-1892)

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!”

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen’s low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, “The day is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

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,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, “The night is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak’d;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,
Or from the crevice peer’d about.
Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices call’d her from without.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loath’d the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, “I am very dreary,
He will not come,” she said;
She wept, “I am aweary, aweary,
O God, that I were dead!”

.

Link back to the Poetry Wednesday tour on Laurita’s page

deletereply starfishred wrote on Jan 12, ’09 You can feel her depression as the night wears on thanks so much

deletereply sanssouciblogs wrote on Jan 12, ’09 Very painful, you can feel the “dreary.” How sad! you know, I wondered about this rhyme scheme and did a little research. I was unable to copy it here but it is on p 60 of this link: http://books.google.com/books?id=2l84AAAAIAAJ&pg=PA60&lpg=PA60&dq=Marianna+Tennyson+rhyme+scheme&source=bl&ots=sD2-Dl72ef&sig=15T7_V7juKSIqUXMjcSENkHIcx4&hl=en&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=2&ct=result#PPA60,M1 The yearning and frustration is so heavy.

deletereply pestep55 wrote on Jan 12, ’09 Lovely but how sad — now I have to find some cheer …..

editdeletereply lauritasita wrote on Jan 13, ’09 Sorry if this poem is despressing you. I just thought it would be a good classic piece to present this week.

deletereply rosiefielding2 wrote on Jan 13, ’09 oh my, very deep but poignant poem, good pic .

deletereply sylvie1 wrote on Jan 14, ’09 SAD YET MOVING AND BEAUTIFUL … LOVE DOES HURT THROUGHOUT TIME FOR US ALL … http://sylvie1.multiply.com/journal/item/735/POETRY_WEDNESDAY_…_WALK_PROUDLY

deletereply eccentricmare wrote on Jan 14, ’09 Interesting. I didn’t find it depressing. I suppose because I live in the hills and understand the preciseness of the descriptions. Black moss in flower pots, cold winds away a grey morn – it’s a special kind of feeling not necessarily of depression but of endurance… I love it.

deletereply notjay wrote on Jan 14, ’09 I like poetry that depicts the cycle of life and death. Good Pic! Thanks for Welcoming me into your poetry circle. Jay

deletereply dianahopeless wrote on Jan 14, ’09 A classic this is. You can almost feel how thick her weariness is.

deletereply vickiecollins wrote on Jan 14, ’09 Her mood reflected in those things around her…interesting how that seems to work. http://vickiecollins.multiply.com/journal/item/613/Poetry_Posse_and_Poetry_Wednesday_Reflections

deletereply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Jan 15, ’09 A masterpiece of the description of loss and despair. Love the picture as well. Thanks for a lovely read here this evening.

deletereply fluffyj wrote on Jan 15, ’09 The weariness of despair, the drowning in it with an empty heart. Creepy and classic. Excellent selection to share. My favorite part is the endless ticking of the clock that seems to emphasize the passing of empty time in her life. -jd