So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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.