On either side the river lie,
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the world and meet the sky,
And thro' the field the road runs by,
To many-tower'd Camelot,
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lillies blow,
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river,
Flowing down to Camelot,
Four grey walls and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers,
The Lady of Shalott.

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly,
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot.
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, '' 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott".

There she weaves by night and day,
A magic web with colours gay,
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay,
To look down on 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 thro' a mirror clear,
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear,
There she sees the highway near,
Winding down to Camelot,
There the river eddy whirls,
And there, the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

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

A bow-shot from her bower eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves,
Of bold Sir Lancelot,
A red-crossed knight forever kneel'd,
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd,
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode,
From underneath his helmet flow'd,
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot,
From the bank and from the river,
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra" by the river,
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot,
Out flew the web and floated wide,
The mirror crack'd from side to side,
"The curse is come upon me!" cried,
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily, the low sky raining,
Over tower'd Camelot,
Down she came and found a boat,
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse,
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance,
With a 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.

Lying robed in snowy white,
That loosely flew to left, to 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 darkened wholly,
Turned to tower'd Camelot,
For ere she reached upon the tide,
The first house by the waterside,
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 bhurger, 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."