And moving thro' a mirror clear Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 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. III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, A red-cross knight for ever kneeled That sparkled on the yellow field, The gemmy bridle glittered free, The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot ; And from his blazoned baldric slung All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jeweled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As often thro' the purple night, His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; She left the web, she left the loom, IV In the stormy east-wind straining, Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote And down the river's dim expanse Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— She floated down to Camelot; |