I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,- Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.