“I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The Lady of Shalott
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“But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA 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,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.”
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“And I am sick for want of sleep;So sick, that I can half-believeThe soundless river pouring from the caveIs neither strong nor deep;Only an image fancied in conceit.”
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