Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов

On either side the river lie
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,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
            The island of Shalott.

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 Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d

Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
            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 Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
            Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers ʽʼTis the fairy
            Lady of Shalott.’

PART II

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.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear

That hangs 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 there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
            Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
            Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
            The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s 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 Shalott.

PART III