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

The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.

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.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.