Poem by Aline Murray Kilmer

For All Ladies of Shalott

THE web flew out and floated wide.
Poor lady! I was with her then.
She gathered up her piteous pride,
But she could never weave again.

The mirror cracked from side to side;
I saw its silver shadows go.
"The curse has come on me!" she cried.
Poor lady! I had told her so.

She was so proud: she would not hide.
She only laughed and tried to sing.
But singing, in her song she died.
She did not profit anything.

1. Bound
2. To Sappho, about Her Apple
3. Shards
4. The Harp
5. Ambition

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