• 26th April
  • 26

  But in her web she still delights

  To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

  For often thro’ the silent nights

  A funeral, with plumes and lights,

  And music, went to Camelot:

  Or when the moon was overhead,

  Came two young lovers lately wed;

  "I am half-sick of shadows," said

  The Lady of Shalott.