A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling through the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.Alfred Tennyson
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her that drew him to his doom.
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
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