She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

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

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.