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

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

The mighty hopes that make us men.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.

if you don't concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.