Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling
light—
Thro’ the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The
willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And
her eyes were darken’d wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house
by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-
pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher,
lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And
they cross’d themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said,
‘She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.’
IT is the miller’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That
trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against
me,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her
laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or
night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on
the spirit lies,
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved
flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While
all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who
are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold
our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;
Nor harken what the
inner spirit sings,
‘There is no joy but calm!’—
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud
With winds upon the
branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon
Nightly
dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,
The full-
juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower
ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should
life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us
alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful
Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up
the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give
us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
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