Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.

The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,While the stars burn, the moons increase,And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.