Essay About Gray Walls And Little Breezes Dusk

The Lady of Shalott
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The Lady of Shalott
Alfred Lord Tennyson
written
On either side the river lie
on fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro the field the road runs by
To many-towerd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shallot.
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 Shallot
By the margin, willow-veild,
Slide the heavy barges traild
By slow horses; and unhaild
The shallop flitteth silken-saild
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 Shallot?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towerd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “Tis the fairy
Lady of Shallot.”
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours 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 Shallot.
And moving thro a mirror clear
That stands 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 the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shallot.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly sheperd lad,
Or long-haird page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towerd Camelot;
And sometimes thro the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shallot.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirrors 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 Shallot.
A 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.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeld
To a lady in his shield,