“The Lady of Shalott” (1842 Version) by Lord Alfred Tennyson (in English)

Part I.

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 many-tower'd 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 gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

               The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

               Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

                The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded 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

              Lady of Shalott."

Part II.

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 hath she,

              The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' 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:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there 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 long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

              Goes by to tower'd 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 the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

"I am half-sick of shadows," said

              The Lady of Shalott.

Part III.

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 redcross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

              Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle-bells rang merrily

              As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

              Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

              As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

              Moves over still Shalott.

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.

Part IV.

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.

And down the river's dim expanse—

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

              Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

              The Lady of Shalott.

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.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

A corse between the houses high,

              Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

              The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

              All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

              The Lady of Shalott."

“The Lady of Shalott” (1833 Version) by Lord Alfred Tennyson (in English)

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.

"Come into the Garden, Maud" by Alfred Lord Tennyson (in English)

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.

When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play. "
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine. "

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait. "

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

"The Kraken" by Lord Alfred Tennyson (in English)

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides; above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie

Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.