As thunder-clouds that, hung on high,
Roof'd the world with doubt and fear,
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;

In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,

Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation. As waves that up a quiet cove

Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will, Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land

With motions of the outer sea;
And the self-same influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.

His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleanore.

VIII

100

110

120

Kate saith the world is void of might.' Kate saith the men are gilded flies.'

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. I would I were an armed knight, Far-famed for well-won enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new-wreathed emprise; For in a moment I would pierce The blackest files of clanging fight, And strongly strike to left and right,

To lapse far back in some confused dream
To states of mystical similitude,

If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair,
Ever the wonder waxeth more and more,
So that we say, 'All this hath been before,
All this hath been, I know not when or
where;'

So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face,

Our thought gave answer each to each, so

true

Opposed mirrors each reflecting eachThat, tho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you, And either lived in either's heart and speech.

II

TO J. M. K.

Reprinted in 1842 from the 1830 volume. Addressed to John Mitchell Kemble (18071857) who was a fellow-student of the poet at Cambridge.

My hope and heart is with thee thou wilt be

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast;

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee:

Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good Sabbath, while the wornout clerk

Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

First published in 1833, and much altered in 1842. See Notes.

PART I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold 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 lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
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 "T is the fairy Lady of Shalott.'

10

20

30

PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,

A 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 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.

Sometimes 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
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.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves,