The Lady of Shalott

Painting by John William Waterhouse (1888)

'Tis morning, Not quite 9 am and I find myself with a few sacred minutes of silence. Jason is still sleeping and Isabella has not yet left the coziness of her own bedroom, probably deeply enthralled in her Harry Potter novel. I have showered, made myself a piece of toast with peanut butter and a chai tea latte and here I sit...

As is often the case with me upon waking, my mind strays to the magical worlds; to the comfort of poetry and beauty, and on this particular morning I have the lovely rhythm of Alfred Lord Tenneson's 'The Lady of Shalott" dancing through my mindwaves. I will share the first part of it here. The entire poem is quite long, Too long for my blog post methinks...

The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And through the field the road run 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

Through the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four grey walls, and four grey 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, " 'Tis the fairy

The Lady of Shalott."

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.

read the entire poem here

I am now off to enjoy my lovely Sunday...Have a beautiful day (-: