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 Shalott.
by Alfred Tennyson
I found this in a book of my original poetry and thought I wrote it, but as I slammed on it I realized I did not. I then looked it up and now add it here for its beautiful language. Remember Walt Whitman, who said,
“Resolving all tongues into my own,
It is put to you, again,
In this glorious gem…”