There she weaves by night and day A magic w eb 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.
And moving t hro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river e ddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels g lad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
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, Went to Camelot:
Or When Was the moon overhead,
Came two young lovers wed Lately,
"I am half-sick of shadows, "Said
The Lady of Shalott.
The story of those who seek their own way is different from that of those who expected to find him that way. The point is to be another way to attract dalll'ennesimo Unknown Kadath, to deal with the infinite shades to find the infinite spectrum of colors, because the prize is not the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow but the rainbow itself.
There are millions of ways to live badly, but just to live well, and often these things are not in conflict with each other, but hidden among the folds of the other one o'clock. There are those who, tired of the shadows of life reflected in a mirror, he decided to break it, and seeing things without filters, with the naked eye. And how many curses of fate may fall upon him, jump on a boat down the river, into the light beyond the horizon at dusk.
This is what I think when I look at my footprints in the snow.
Yet, amidst the fragments of the broken mirror, many are trapped and can no longer get out, no other hope, vain, who follow the shadows reflected, now distorted beyond recognition.
But it's meant to be. We exceptions exist to confirm their rules, and there is no better job in the world.
And we hope to leave the river without forgetting, and even if it were, has been a great journey.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott"
