A piece(s) from Tennyson’s Lady Of Shalott
But in her web she still delights
           To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
           For often thro’ the silent nights
           A funeral, with plumes and lights
                 And music, went to Camelot:
           Or when the moon was overhead,
           Came two young lovers lately wed:
           “I am half sick of shadows,” said
                The Lady of Shalott.
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           A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
           He rode between the barley-sheaves,
           The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
           And flamed upon the brazen greaves
                 Of bold Sir Lancelot.
           A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
           To a lady in his shield,
           That sparkled on the yellow field,
               Beside remote Shalott.
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         His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
         On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
         From underneath his helmet flow’d
         His coal-black curls as on he rode,
               As he rode down to Camelot.
         From the bank and from the river
         He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
          ”Tirra lirra,” by the river
               Sang Sir Lancelot.
         She left the web, she left the loom,
         She made three paces thro’ the room,
         She saw the water-lily bloom,
         She saw the helmet and the plume,
               She look’d down to Camelot.
         Out flew the web and floated wide;
         The mirror crack’d from side to side;
         “The curse is come upon me,” cried
              The Lady of Shalott.
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         In the stormy east-wind straining,
         The pale yellow woods were waning,
         The broad stream in his banks complaining,
         Heavily the low sky raining
               Over tower’d Camelot;
         Down she came and found a boat
         Beneath a willow left afloat,
         And round about the prow she wrote
               The Lady of Shalott.
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         Lying, robed in snowy white
         That loosely flew to left and right–
         The leaves upon her falling light–
         Thro’ the noises of the night
               She floated down to Camelot:
         And as the boat-head wound along
         The willowy hills and fields among,
         They heard her singing her last song,
               The Lady of Shalott.
         Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
         Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
         Till her blood was frozen slowly,
         And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
               Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
         For ere she reach’d upon the tide
         The first house by the water-side,
         Singing in her song she died,
               The Lady of Shalott.
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