Weaving
by Lucy Larcom

All day she stands before her loom;
The flying shuttles come and go;
By grassy fields, and trees in bloom,
She sees the winding river flow:
And fancy's shuttle flieth wide,
And faster than the waters glide.

Is she entangled in her dreams.
Like that fair weaver of Shalott.
Who left her mystic mirror's gleams,
To gaze on light Sir Lancelot?
Her heart, a mirror sadly true,
Brings gloomier visions into view.

"I weave, and weave, the livelong day:
The woof is strong, the warp is good:
I weave, to be my mother's stay;
I weave, to win my daily food:
But ever as I weave," saith she,
"The world of women haunteth me.

"The river glides along, one thread
In nature's mesh, so beautiful!
The stars are woven in; the red
Of sunrise; and the rain-cloud dull.
Each seems a separate wonder wrought;
Each blends with some more wondrous thought.

The Gentleman of Shalott
by Elizabeth Bishop

Which eye's his eye?
Which limb lies
next the mirror?
For neither is clearer
nor a different color
than the other,
nor meets a stranger
in this arrangement
of leg and leg and
arm and so on.
To his mind
it's an indication
of a mirrored reflection
somewhere along the line
of what we call the spine.

He felt in modesty
his person was
half looking-glass,
for why should he
be doubled?
The glass must stretch
down his middle,
or rather down the edge.
But he's in doubt
as to which side's in or out
of the mirror.
There's little margin for error,
but there's no proof, either.
And if half his head's reflected,
thought, he thinks, might be affected.

But he's resigned
to such economical design.
If the glass slips
he's in a fix--
only one leg, etc.  But
while it stays put
he can walk and run
and his hands can clasp one
another.  The uncertainty
he says he
finds exhilarating.  He loves
that sense of constant re-adjustment.
He wishes to be quoted as saying at present:
"Half is enough."

The Lady Was a Lie
by Jennifer Chung

She looks through mirrors,
She lives through mirrors.
Weaving time like tapestries.
Waiting oh, so patiently,
For a man to pine for,
To lie and die for.
But don't you believe it,
These tales were told by men for men.
The lady was a lie.
Made immortal by high tragedy.
Legitimized by authority.
But living just to die
Is no way to live at all.

One day she'll catch a glint of gold
Reflected off her lover's helmet.
What is this hold he has on her
To finally make her move?
She steps lightly from her room,
Down to the mossy river banks.
Where she'll step inside her tomb,
And seal her fate for the ethereal.
The boat was laden with her hopes
And her jewels, her dowry, her clothes,
All the things she might be worth.
This moment she's been waiting for.
Did she feel her life force fade
As she approached the wooden gate?
A gilded cage, oh lady of Shalott.

Shalott, Ophelia, Butterfly...
You love to see us pine and die.
You'd like to give us the golden gun,
You think it's over when you're done.
But the lady was a lie.

Elaine
by Edward Reginald Frampton

Illustrated Children's Books