ometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
X funeral, with plumes and lights,

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead, Game two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said

The Lady of Shalott.