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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, Walt Whitman (2010). “English Poetry III: Tennyson to Whitman: The Five Foot Shelf of Classics, Vol. XLII (in 51 Volumes)”, p.998, Cosimo, Inc.
