The year is dying in the night.

I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.