The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse 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.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees a highway near
Winding down to Camelot...

***

But in her web she still delights
To weave the magic mirrors sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music went to Camelot;
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came to young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

***

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance-
With glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

~A poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson