Luyện nghe bài hát The Lady of Shalott

On either of the river lie
fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the and meet the sky;
And thro' the the road run by

To many-towered

And up and the people go,
Gazing the lilies blow
an island there below,
The of Shalott.

whiten, aspens quiver,
Little dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that for ever
By the island in the

down to Camelot.

Four walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a of flowers,
And the isle imbowers
The of Shalott.

Only reapers, early,
In among the barley
Hear a song that cheerly
the river winding clearly

Down to tower'd

And by the moon the weary,
Piling in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'tis the
The of Shalott."

There she by night and day
A web with colours gay,
She has a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she

To look to Camelot.

She not what the curse may be,
And so she steadily,
And little other care she,
The of Shalott.

And through a mirror clear
hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the appear.
There she sees the highway

down to Camelot;

And sometimes the mirror blue
The come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal and true,
The Of Shalott.

But in her web she still
To weave the mirror's sights,
For thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and

And music, went to

Or when the was overhead,
two young lovers lately wed.
"I am sick of shadows," said
The Of Shalott.

A from her bower-eaves,
He rode the barley sheaves,
The sun came thro' the leaves,
And upon the brazen greaves

Of Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross for ever kneel'd
To a in his shield,
That sparkled on the field,
Beside Shalott.

His clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his trode;
From underneath his helmet
His coal-black as on he rode,

As he back to Camelot.

From the and from the river
he flashed into the mirror,
"Tirra Lirra," by the
Sir Lancelot.

She the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces the room,
She saw the bloom,
She saw the and the plume,

She down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated
The mirror cracked side to side;
"The curse is upon me," cried
The of Shalott.

In the east-wind straining,
The pale woods were waning,
The stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky

Over Camelot;

Down she came and a boat
Beneath a willow afloat,
And round about the she wrote
The of Shalott

And down the dim expanse
Like some bold in a trance,
all his own mischance -
With a glassy

Did she to Camelot.

And at the of the day
She loosed the chain and she lay;
The broad stream her far away,
The of Shalott.

a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, lowly,
Till her blood was slowly,
And her were darkened wholly,

Turn'd to Camelot.

For ere she reach'd the tide
The first by the water-side,
in her song she died,
The of Shalott.

tower and balcony,
By and gallery,
A gleaming shape she by,
Dead-pale between the high,

into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs came,
and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And the prow they read her name,
The of Shalott.

Who is this? And is here?
And in the lighted near
Died the sound of cheer;
And crossed themselves for fear,

All the at Camelot;

But Lancelot mused a space
He said, "She has a face;
God in his mercy her grace,
The of Shalott."