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.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.

So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight