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.
Nature, red in tooth and claw.
Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.