J. W. Waterhouse, The Lady of Shalott, 1888

The wanton lily bloom gone, you’re the last

Pale flower in this river’s dim expanse—

The mirror of the wild wold—waning fast—

That was once yours to weave. Now, take this chance

To feel the river creep up your white sleeve,

Drift down the river that leads you to your

Dark, mysterious Death, who by your leave

Glides to your unmoored boat by foreign shore.

You lift your face to his: keep it there, greet

Him with your song, art such as Lancelot

Cannot deserve. So, sing your carol sweet—

Indeed, in death ne’er will you be forgot.

The poets metered life beyond your death,

And painters caught your last immortal breath.

{Sonnet inspired by John William Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott. Here is a beautiful thing for your ears.}