BEFORE THE MIRROR.

Now like the Lady of Shalott,

I dwell within an empty room,

And through the day and through the night

I sit before an ancient loom.

And like the Lady of Shalott

I look into a mirror wide,

Where shadows come, and shadows go,

And ply my shuttle as they glide.

Not as she wove the yellow wool,

Ulysses’ wife, Penelope;

By day a queen among her maids,

But in the night a woman, she,

Who, creeping from her lonely couch,

Unraveled all the slender wool;

Or, with a torch, she climbed the towers,

To fire the fagots on the roof!

But weaving with a steady hand

The shadows, whether false or true,

I put aside a doubt which asks

“Among these phantoms what are you?”

For not with altar, tomb, or urn,

Or long-haired Greek with hollow shield,

Or dark-prowed ship with banks of oars,

Or banquet in the tented field;

Or Norman knight in armor clad,

Waiting a foe where four roads meet;

Or hawk and hound in bosky dell,

Where dame and page in secret greet;

Or rose and lily, bud and flower,

My web is broidered. Nothing bright

Is woven here: the shadows grow

Still darker in the mirror's light!

And as my web grows darker too,

Accursed seems this empty room;

For still I must forever weave

These phantoms by this ancient loom.