ON 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; The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'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? 997 Only reapers, reaping early Down to tower'd Camelot: PART II There she weaves by night and day To look down to Camelot. And little other care hath she, And moving thro' a mirror clear 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, Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue But in her web she still delights PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd That sparkled on the yellow field, The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 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 |