Julie Boden explains why she has selected Tennyson's work as one of her favourite poems:"I love Tennyson's 'Mariana' because it works on the eye and on the ear. It sings to the heart to take you on its journey. It does not say, "Look at me, see how clever I am," but the haunting assonance of lines such as, ' "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"' echo within us.
"Each small detail heightens the sense of desolation both within the landscape and within Mariana herself. Time almost stands still.
"It's inspired... it's inspirational."
Mariana, by Tennison
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
We've teamed up with the Symphony Hall's poet in residence Julie Boden to find our readers' favourite poems. Send us your favourite poem and explain how it had an effect on your life or why it means something special.
Your words may be used in our magazines or on our website. We reserve the right to edit your emails.
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,'The night 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.
