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Роберт Браунинг
PART IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale-yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky raining Over tower’d Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse —Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance —With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.Lying robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right —The leaves upon her falling light —Thro’ the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.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 tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross’d themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, ‘She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.’