a shrine of flowers to dress her boat, floating in her rosy dusty gowns, her pale dress flows like the lilies in the river, the lilies of her grave. she breathes an icy nest of air, cobweb lungs, having no one to kiss the water from her dreary wrist, the lilies overgrowing her heart
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.