The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Came to her: without hope of change,In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
Upon the lonely moated grange.  She only said, ‘My life is dreary,
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 And o'er it many, round and small,The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.