I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.