But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights:
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, came from Camelot.
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
“Tirra lirra, tirra lirra,”
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web: she left the loom:
She looked down to Camelot.