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There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights:A funeral, with plumes and lightsAnd music, came from Camelot.“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.“Tirra lirra, tirra lirra,”Sang Sir Lancelot.She left the web: she left the loom:She looked down to Camelot.