The Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson 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. 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.