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.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights:
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, came from Camelot.
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
“Tirra lirra, tirra lirra,”
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web: she left the loom:
She looked down to Camelot.