The barley fields are golden ever,
The willows weep, the aspens shiver,
By the swift, fast-flowing river,
On the road to Camelot,
I glimpse the walls, the four grey towers,
A sense of gloom quite overpowers,
And a solitude that just devours,
When I set eyes upon Shallot.
I push the heavy, oaken door,
Petals line the marble floor,
I feel like I’ve been here before,
In the Castle of Shallot.
The silence echoes and it’s eerie,
It envelops those who, travel weary,
Find the Castle somewhat dreary,
This Castle of Shallot.
I climb the gently curving stairs,
Their grace takes me so unawares,
None before these quite compares,
To the stairwells at Shallot,
As I ascend in the sombre gloom,
I come across a tiny room,
And in it sits the very loom,
Of the Lady of Shallot.
It was here that she would sit and weave,
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