The broad stream takes her far away down the river. On its prow she writes, “The Lady of Shalott.” She looks out over the river as a seer with glossy eyes would be wont to do, seeing his own “mischance.” When the sun sets, she loosens her chain and lies down in the boat. She cries out, “The curse is come upon me.” She looks down to Camelot, and as she does so, her web flies out the window and her mirror cracks from side to side. She looks down and sees the water lilies blooming and Lancelot’s helmet and plume. The Lady of Shalott leaves her loom and crosses the room in three paces. His image flashes into the mirror as he sings “Tirra lirra” by the river. Sunlight glimmers on his brow, and his black curly hair flows from under his helmet. He rides by Shalott in “blue unclouded weather,” and his helmet, helmet feather, and saddle-leather burn like “one burning flame together.” He is like a meteor shooting through the starry night sky. The bells on his bridle ring out merrily, and the silver bugle he carried shines brightly. Sir Lancelot rides through the barley sheaves on his breast is the emblem of a knight forever kneeling to a lady. Then the Lady of Shalott says to herself, “I am half sick of shadows.” Regardless, she weaves and delights in her creations of the mirrors’ “magic sights.” Sometimes there is a general procession or two young lovers newly wed. Sometimes she will see an abbot, or a group of damsels, or a page clad in crimson, or knights riding in twos. Through her mirror she sees the shadows of the world, the highway and the river eddy and the young men and women passing onward from Shalott. She weaves steadily and thinks of little else. In the tower she weaves day and night her “magic web with colours gay.” She knows there is a curse upon her if she looks down at Camelot, although she does not know what the curse is. The reapers pile up their sheaves and whisper that it is the fairy Lady singing. Only early morning reapers hear her cheerful song that reaches down to the river that winds to Camelot. Heavy barges followed by slow horses pass by the island, but no one has ever seen the Lady wave or stand at the window.

On the island are four gray walls and four gray towers, and within is the Lady of Shalott. The willows “whiten,” and little breezes blow forever around the island. The people gaze at the way lilies blow around the island of Shalott. On either side of the river are fields of barley and rye, and through them a road winds to Camelot.

Tennyson arthurian poems