"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 loathed 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, oh God, that I were dead!'"
-Lord Tennyson Alfred
Fuck You.
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