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, came from Camelot.
Or, when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers, lately wed:
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
⁠The Lady of Shalott.