A silver sparkle rose from the boat,
It was a spirit wearing light like a coat,
The shimmering spirit flew above the moat,
And the elegant vessel was no longer afloat,
It sank in the river of Camelot
The heat and light made the cold rain die,
The Lady’s spirit rose up high,
And looked towards the fields of rye,
Then shot up into the starry sky,
The Lady of Shalott
The people, they were stricken with grief,
Sour sadness was acting chief,
But Sir Lancelot, he clamped his teeth,
And buried the Lady’s body underneath,
The holy ground of Camelot,
He built a statue in her name,
He chiselled all month despite the pain,
Then he roared with a voice that nothing could tame,
“Why has Death taken so cruel a claim?”
“Why was it the Lady of Shalott!?”
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