Cia/Introduction

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.

-- The Lady of Shallott

Alfred, Lord Tennyson