By the river Camelot, a tower stands tall
Where the Lady of Shalott weaves within her hall
Cursed to never gaze upon the world outside
Her fate is sealed, her life denied

Weaving her tapestry, day by day
Cursed to never look upon the world 
Trapped inside her tower, she must stay
Her gaze is fixed, her fate is unfurled

Oh the Lady of Shalott
Bound by a spell, her life forgot
Mirrored images, her only lot
Oh the Lady of Shalott

Sir Lancelot rides by, a dazzling sight
She glimpses him, her heart begins to race
Forsaking her loom, she steps into the light 
And walks towards her doom, with sorrow on her face

The curse has taken hold, her world starts to fade
Down to the river, her boat is made
Drifting away, her song is played

In the river she lies, pale and still
Lancelot gazes on, his heart does not thrill
"She has a lovely face," he says with a will
Oh the Lady of Shalott

When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.