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.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power.

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.