Attain the unattainable.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

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

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

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.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.