Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
That which we are, we are.
There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors 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.
Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.