On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And trho' the field the [bad word] by
    To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
    The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave [bad word] for ever
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 beared 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,
Listing, whispers "'tis the fairy
    The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
magic web with colours [bad word] 
She has heard a whisper say,
curse is 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 the highway near
    Winding down to Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The [bad word] riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and [bad word] 
    The Lady of Shalott.

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

bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves,
    Of bold Sir Lancelot.
red-cross knight for ever 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.
And 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 [bad word] upon me," cried
    The Lady of Shalott.

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

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

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted slowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened 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...