Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

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