A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
he rode between the barley-sheaves,
the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
and flam'd upon the brazen greaves
of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
to a lady in his shield,
that sparkled on the yellow field,
beside remote Shalott.
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Tennyson
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I am in blood
stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more
returning were as tedious as go o'er
Shakespeare
