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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,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
And the silent isle imbowers
By the margin, willow-veil'd,
Skimming down to Camelot:
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
Down to tower'd Camelot:
There she weaves by night and day
To look down to Camelot.
And little other care hath she,
And moving thro' a mirror clear
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
But in her web she still delights
And music, went to Camelot?
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
That sparkled on the yellow field,
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather