Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shallot
Alfred Lord Tennyson
I might sit back, let flake settle
over flake like white hens nesting
on eggs, covering my feet, then knees,
on higher, to my alabaster cheeks
and jet lashes, ’til the white parting
of my hair grows indistinguishable
from the falling snow.
Or flutter, fall back, a floating angel
eager to show her wings,
as my mortal heels and ivory thighs
sink and I pull the pond’s ice quilt
up over my dark eyes.
Or ignore the path for frozen bluffs,
refuse to shout or snatch the cliff-face
root. Instead, fly off the icy edge,
airborne, truly afloat, ’til
all this dismal weaving ends.
But these scripts are flat!
No one would see the Lady of Shalott
or hear her last chill song.
My death deserves some recompense:
a death that stops their carols too.
Oh, and that knight with the coal-black
curls to offer grace and kiss my poor dead face.