By Alfred Lord Tennyson (1843)



On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road run by

To many-towered Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.



Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.



Only reapers, reaping early,

In among the beared barley

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly;

Down to tower'd Camelot;

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers ''tis the fairy

The Lady of Shalott.



There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care heat she,

The Lady of Shalott.



And moving through a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two.

She hath no loyal Knight and true,

The 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