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on either side the river lie long Fields of barley and rye, that clothe the world and meet the sky; and thro' the field the road runs by to many towered-camelot
there she weaves by night and day a magic web with colors gay. she has heard a whisper say a curse is on her if she stay to look down to camelot
a bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold sir lancelot
in the stormy east-wind straining the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining
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