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

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.