Part the
First.
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 runs by
To manytowered Camelot.
The
yellowleavèd waterlily,
The
greensheathèd daffodilly,
Tremble in
the water chilly,
Round about Shalott.
Willows
whiten, aspens shiver,
The
sunbeam-showers break and quiver
In the
stream that runneth ever
By the
island in the river,
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray
walls and four gray towers
Overlook a
space of flowers,
And the
silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Underneath
the bearded barley,
The reaper,
reaping late and early,
Hears her
ever chanting cheerly,
Like an
angel, singing clearly,
O'er the stream of Camelot.
Piling the
sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the
moon, the reaper weary
Listening
whispers, "'tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
The little
isle is all inrailed
With a
rose-fence, and overtrailed
With roses:
by the marge unhailed
The shallop
flitteth silkensailed,
Skimming down to Camelot.
A
pearlgarland winds her head:
She leaneth
on a velvet bed,
Full royally
apparellèd
The Lady of Shalott.
Part the
Second.
No time hath
she to sport and play:
A charmèd
web she weaves alway.
A curse is
on her, if she stay
Her weaving,
either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows
not what the curse may be;
Therefore
she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no
other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
She lives
with little joy or fear.
Over the
water, running near,
The
sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her
hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting towered Camelot.
And, as the
mazy web she whirls,
She sees the
surly village-churls,
And the red
cloaks of market-girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a
troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on
an ambling pad,
Sometimes a
curly shepherd lad,
Or
longhaired page, in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered 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, came from Camelot.
Or, when the
moon was overhead,
Came two
young lovers, lately wed:
"I am
half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part the
Third.
A bowshot
from her bower-eaves.
He rode
between the barleysheaves:
The sun came
dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed
upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Launcelot.
A redcross
knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in
his shield,
That
sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy
bridle glittered free,
Like to some
branch of stars we see
Hung in the
golden galaxy.
The
bridle-bells rang merrily,
As he rode down from Camelot.
And, from
his blazoned baldric slung,
A mighty
silver bugle hung,
And, as he
rode, his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the
blue unclouded weather,
Thickjewelled
shone the saddle-leather.
The helmet,
and the helmet-feather
Burned like
one burning flame together,
As he rode down from Camelot.
As often
thro' the purple night,
Below the
starry clusters bright,
Some bearded
meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green Shalott.
His broad
clear brow in sunlight glowed.
On burnished
hooves his warhorse trode.
From
underneath his helmet flowed
His
coalblack curls, as on he rode,
As he rode down from Camelot.
From the
bank, and from the river,
He flashed
into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra, tirra lirra,"
Sang Sir Launcelot.
She left the
web: she left the loom:
She made
three paces thro' the room:
She saw the
waterflower bloom:
She saw the
helmet and the plume:
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the
web, and floated wide,
The mirror
cracked from side to side,
'The curse
is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part the
Fourth.
In the
stormy eastwind straining
The
pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad
stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the
low sky raining
Over towered Camelot:
Outside the
isle a shallow boat
Beneath a
willow lay afloat,
Below the
carven stern she wrote,
THE LADY OF SHALOTT.
A cloudwhite
crown of pearl she dight.
All
raimented in snowy white
That loosely
flew, (her zone in sight,
Clasped with
one blinding diamond bright,)
Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot,
Though the
squally eastwind keenly
Blew, with
folded arms serenely
By the water
stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.
With a
steady, stony glance—
Like some
bold seer in a trance,
Beholding
all his own mischance,
Mute, with a
glassy countenance—
She looked down to Camelot.
It was the
closing of the day,
She loosed
the chain, and down she lay,
The broad
stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
As when to
sailors while they roam,
By creeks
and outfalls far from home,
Rising and
dropping with the foam,
From dying
swans wild warblings come,
Blown shoreward; so to Camelot
Still as the
boathead wound along
The willowy
hills and fields among,
They heard
her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.
A longdrawn
carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted
loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her
eyes were darkened wholly,
And her
smooth face sharpened slowly
Turned to towered Camelot:
For ere she
reached upon the tide
The first
house by the waterside,
Singing in
her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower
and balcony,
By
gardenwall and gallery,
A pale, pale
corpse she floated by,
Deadcold,
between the houses high,
Dead into towered Camelot.
Knight and
burgher, lord and dame,
To the
plankèd wharfage came:
Below the
stern they read her name,
"The Lady of Shalott."
They crossed
themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight,
minstrel, abbot, squire and guest.
There lay a
parchment on her breast,
That puzzled
more than all the rest,
The wellfed wits at Camelot.
"The
web was woven curiously
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear not – this is I,
The Lady of Shalott.
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