| Tennyson |
| But in her web she still delights To weave the mirrors magic sights, For often throught 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. |
| The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!" -Marianna |
| Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may ther be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. -Crossing the Bar |