#sir barley the bold

[jomiddlemarch]

Silly things do cease to be silly

George Knightley was well aware the household staff at Hartfield had been much in favor of his engagement to Emma, even more so when they learnt the marriage would not lead to Emma’s departure from the estate but rather his stabilizing arrival, but he admitted to some surprise when he arrived in the afternoon for a visit and was positively hurried to the drawing room by the butler, a circumspect man of indeterminate age moving with the alacrity of a boy whose transgression was about to be found out by a stern nurse. 

“Godspeed, sir,” the man muttered before closing the door silently.

“My dear Emma—” he began, approaching her calmly, something of a feat given the way she was striding about the room, her curls bouncing with an unearthly energy, her hazel eyes wild. He’d never known India muslin could flap so dramatically.

“I’m being driven to distraction, Mr. Knightley, and I don’t see how I can bear it though I don’t see how it won’t be borne! I vow I’m likely to tear my hair out and scream myself hoarse and I know you shall tell me I’m not behaving with any degree of decorum, but the time for decorum is long, long gone!” she exclaimed, trembling beneath his hands when he took hold of hers in their usual greeting, shuddering when he pulled her into a gentle embrace. It was an indication of the vast affection he held for her that the sensation of her heaving bosom pressed to his chest, the hint of her slender waist he felt as he stroked her back only evoked tenderness in him, nothing libidinous. He told himself that, to keep anything remotely carnal at bay, and he also calculated the acreage he meant to plant with rye instead of barley and the projected profit if the market held.

“Don’t tear out your hair, darling Emma,” he said. “I’ve a particular fondness for those curls.”

“They’re fake. It takes Susan two hours with the irons or I’ve got to sleep in rags,” she murmured against his frock-coat. “My hair’s straight as a stick, another disappointment—”

“Nothing about you is a disappointment to me. Though I’m concerned to find you in such a state,” he said. “Is it happening too quickly? We might extend the engagement if that would set your mind at ease. I’ve waited long enough, I shouldn’t mind waiting longer if it would make you happy, dearest.”

“I should mind, most dreadfully,” she said. She looked up at him and for the thousandth time, he thought how her face looked like a flower. “And you shouldn’t wait any longer than the next fortnight. How I shall bear it, I cannot say—”

“What’s troubling you then?”

“The wedding-breakfast. And Papa,” she replied. “I have reviewed the menu with him a dozen times and he frets over something new each time. When I include all the dishes he suggests, the table groans and then he worries we’d all get sick from a surfeit of rich foods. When I make the menu very simple, very plain, barely more than an invalid’s board, he worries we’ll starve. And he won’t countenance anything made with lemon!”

George nodded. It was not a tremendous shock that Emma’s father, who was beset by anxieties most frequently related to meals and their relative risk to the health of all he held dear, would be distressed about the upcoming wedding-breakfast though George attributed Emma’s response to a bride’s nerves. What was called for then, was to remind her that she was to be a bride, his bride and then, his beloved wife.

“Why are you dismayed about the lemon?” he asked.

“Because it’s your favorite and now I’ve ruined it, for I meant to surprise you with lemon syllabub, and now you won’t have anything sweet you like,” Emma said.

It was obvious what he must do next, so he leaned down and kissed her frowning lips very softly, tasting her with more boldness than he had previously allowed himself, so that when they parted, the furrow in her brow was gone and the expression in her eyes was one of dazed wonder.

“I have everything sweet that I like already. And after the wedding-breakfast, I shan’t have to mind my manners when it comes to my appetite,” he said.

After she’d poured out the tea the housekeeper herself had brought in after ascertaining that Miss Woodhouse would like to offer Mr. Knightley some refreshment but before she’d taken a sip from her own cup, George spoke.

“I also quite enjoy honey.”

“Isn’t that rather sticky?” Emma said, her eyes nearly amber, but so marvelously innocent. “I always get some on my fingers and then I’ve got to lick it off.”

“Indeed,” George said. “I’ve often found myself in the same situation. We shall need to help each other, won’t we?”

Written for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month, Day 10, prompt: wedding-breakfast

[literaryvein-reblogs]

The Lady of Shalott is a painting of 1888 by the English painter John William Waterhouse. It is a representation of the ending of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's 1832 poem of the same name.

The Lady of Shalott (1832) By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; The yellow-leaved waterlily The green-sheathed daffodilly Tremble in the water chilly Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver. The sunbeam showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd With roses: by the marge unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear. Over the water, running near, The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting tower'd Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot: And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down from Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, Though the squally east-wind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She look'd down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day: She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boathead wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her deathsong, The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot: For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, Dead into tower'd Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the planked wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. 'The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not,—this is I, The Lady of Shalott.'

[english-history-trip]

...No time hath she to sport and play: A charmèd web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, ⁠To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, ⁠The Lady of Shalott...

....But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights: For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights ⁠And music, came from Camelot. Or, when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers, lately wed: "I am half-sick of shadows," said ⁠The Lady of Shalott.

A bowshot from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves: The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves ⁠Of bold Sir Lancelot. A redcross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, ⁠Beside remote Shalott....

...She left the web: she left the loom: She made three paces thro' the room: She saw the waterflower bloom: She saw the helmet and the plume: ⁠She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web, and floated wide, The mirror cracked from side to side, "The curse is come upon me," cried ⁠The Lady of Shalott.

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold, and meet the sky. And thro' the field the road runs by ⁠To manytowered Camelot. The yellowleavèd waterlily, The green-sheathèd daffodilly, Tremble in the water chilly, ⁠Round about Shalott....

...With a steady, stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— ⁠She looked down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day, She loosed the chain, and down she lay, The broad stream bore her far away, ⁠The Lady of Shalott...

...Under tower and balcony, By gardenwall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, ⁠Dead into towered Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the plankèd wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, ⁠"The Lady of Shalott."...

Text: Excerpts from "The Lady Of Shalott" by Alfred Tennyson, 1833

Images: Howard Pyle, 1881; John William Waterhouse, 1915; William Maw Egley, 1858; William Holman Hunt, c. 1905; John William Waterhouse, 1888; Edmund Blair Leighton, c. 1887

[abyeve]

The Lady of Shalott (1832)

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

The Lady of Shalott.'

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson

[nossumusstellae]

Watching Merlin has me in a Loreena McKennit mood

Specifically, her song Lady Of Shalott (a singing of the poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

"A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot."

Edit: Holy Goddess this song is 33 years old.

[soberlovey]

out of the ashes that burn.

JOHN WICK + F!READER father/daugher. (PLATONIC)

THIS WILL BE A ONGOING SERIES (if continued)

mild cussing, yah yah..

You placed your wet hand on the brick wall, it making a dark hand print where it lied. Your eyes shined in the dark streetlights, tears running down your cheeks while your arms struggled to stay upright while pressing against the rough, white, brick wall.

The streets were emptier than normal, however this was the part of the city where barley anyone was. Especially at night. By a lot of people you knew, this part of the city was called "Dead Of Night"

Your jacket stuck to your skin, humid and wet. Your black long sleeved shirt grey from the streetlight shining on it. The rain pattered against your head, large, heavy droplets descending from the dark clouds in the sky.

Running from a car nearly hitting you because you decided to jay-walk is scary as hell.

Hands off the wall, you took a step back as the weight of the damp sleeves of your shirt weighed your arms down. You took out a sharpie and held it to the wall, eyes searching for any nearby cameras.

Nothing, but thats not a surprise.

Taking a moment to think what to write, the puddles near you splashing from the raindrops, giving the slightest inspiration to you.

"Dont jay-walk. You'll drown in your own blood."

Warning people is fun, hm?

You shoved the marker back in your pocket, then looked back up at the writing on the wall, reading it over and over again.

Then, that loop of reading got interrupted.

Footsteps echoed from the corner of the building you stood near, they were audible, but you couldn't hear them that well.

You figured it was most likely the mailman. You were near a neighborhood afterall.

Dismissing it, you decided to walk off.

Curiosity grew, you were aware this person was behind you. You had to look back.

Your head spun, looking back as the shocked mailman jumped.

"Oh my gosh! Ma'am im so sorry."

The mailman yelped.

The guilt rose from your heart, you felt horrible. You didnt mean to scare the poor guy.

"Oh, dear. Sorry. I thought you were following me."

The mailman's words started to jumble and he stuttered as he tried to explain.

"I-I mean you were heading to a certain address.. I thought."

"No. Its fine."

You were a bit tired from talking to this socially unstable mailman, obviously.

"Listen, Ma'am I have to deliver some mail-"

The drop of a slightly heavy envelope interrupted him mid sentence.

You read the address, a bell rung in your head as the familiar name struck your memory.

"Oh, The Continental? I know where that is."

You picked the envelope, it sounded like a few quarters or something were in there.

"Say, how bout' I do you a favor.. and I drop this off at The Continental."

You smirked as the mailman's expression changed to a look of concern.

"Ma'am. Its my job. I got it."

Really? Well, you did have to stop by the store near that dumb hotel anyway. Why not have something fun to do while you were on your way.

"No, sir. I insist. Just tell your boss you got it, alright!"

You didn't even give him a chance to respond, but it was clear he agreed.

As you walked, the wind gusted against your clothes even though the rain stopped. Your body, still wet sent chills along your back.

The urge to open the envelope grew, well because what seemed to be in that envelope didnt seem like a rent due notice or a letter from the owner.

Some coins and a letter didn't seem like that at all.

"I have to open it"

You whispered under your cold breath, as the transparent gust left your mouth from the coldness of the air.

Using your nail, you opened the envelope for a piece of folded paper and two big, golden, coins to greet you.

The light reflected off them as the light from the reflection glazed your eyes at the slightest.

You grabbed the piece of paper and held it up to your eyes.

"John Wick"

Written across the front of the folded paper in black, bold pen.

Hm, whos that?

Opening up the paper, the dark words seemed as less professional than a eviction notice or anything. This was obviously a letter to John Wick, whoever that is.

Your eyes went back and fourth across the paper as you read the letter.

"Dear Jonathan, I and my crew are aware of the situation you have gotten yourself in over the past few weeks, and fortunately we stand with you. We have made sure to help you the best we can by providing you with ammunition and weaponry. We pray for you and your safety."

"Well, no sincerely? I guess we'll never know how this belongs to. Not my problem. Unless this "John Wick" Becomes my problem."

You whispered with every ounce of pride, it was clear no one could hear you. But it wasn't necessary for anyone to hear your prideful remark.

[wistfulweaverwoman]

My URL is a tongue-in-cheek reference to Anne Shirley, specifically when she play acts as the Lilymaid, Elaine, from Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poem, The Lady of Shalott.

Her annoyance that Gilbert Blythe of all people should find her clinging to the pylons and rescue her, and worse that her friends should find it so romantic, endears this scene to me. It’s one of my most favorites from the entire series, right up there with “Rilla MY Rilla?”.

Wistfulweaverwoman specifically comes from the line “there she weaves by night and day, a magic web with colors gay”, while my AO3 is Lilymaid.

Here is the poem in its entirety:

The Lady of Shalott (1842)

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

"I am half sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed 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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro' the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott."

[notbeingnoticed]

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

 The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

 The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

[notanotheralice]

The Lady of Shalott by Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

 The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

 The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

[captious-solarian]

My poem for August is The Lady of Shalott (revised version) by Alfred Tennyson (1842, English).

I

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."

II

There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down on Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other case hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot. There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onwards from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: "I am half sick of shadows", said The Lady of Shalott.

III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed 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. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As ofen thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra", by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me", cried The Lady of Shalott.

IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head would along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; G–d in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

See also

Loreena McKennitt singing this poem wonderfully

Hark, a Vagrant! ruining all the poetry

Sympathetic Opposition's The Unfacedoxxed Egirl in Literature

take the 2024 dostoyevsky-official challenge: every month, learn one poem by heart. it could be in any language, it could be poetry you already know, it could be poetry you're reading for the first time, it could be a sonnet, it could be a ballad: go wild (but for this, i recommend choosing canonical poetry in your chosen language, not poetry in translation, nor something new). above all, poetry, language charged with meaning to the ultimate degree, is meant to be read aloud, to be felt with the tongue. by the end of the year, you'll have a better intuitive understanding of the poet's craft, of the possibility and beauty of language, an improved reading style, and, through the memorization process, a deep knowledge of each chosen poem—and you'll have committed 12 poems to heart, sitting around for any occasion, keeping you company wherever you go

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11622

A limerick sequence

               1

Ten years! Each rose witt is weakenesse; and yet no sinners. Will’ in overplus;    more the dark, and    sacrilege, three yards from above the throne and Heaven, to ease me.

               2

We cherished bee through the evening is acute. That is part museum of    the soul of many a    greet despitus. So you ran and hir likyng. And I, that weeps.

               3

When, with such pryde and yit was a mayden Queene. How near the bow, and still aver    the little hour! Sick,    am I. But of one if short years we’ve caught at one Will’ more.

               4

All the shirt since he gives nothing air. Now wol I kisse thee, hence removed. Because    thou couldst print more, and    death. Thou seist to hunt, I put him out of my hair to wake me.

               5

Why dyest thou art gone! My fourthe housbonde for barley bare. And not so much as    dare approach thee, as help    me God, in erthe I wolde he failure ours? And made Love is laid.

               6

And briers! Against the imperfections were ful glade to attract his enemie.    Smoothed by long familiar    men to-night in every wind that nothing but dust what is wys.

               7

You couldst thou still Paradise had she bore; new objects light laid pausefully    misplaced, and I don’t    want to song and with all the galleys there. Or, while I place yours.

               8

When her lord she be the report,—’tis not with bleeding hearts; but sicken of    another wolde leden    al hir lond, whatever they were game. Laid up, and flies away.

               9

She did but dream passed you, whose quiet would corrupt my saint to be clenė, body    and soul that I took    for terme, my spring-days, with arms outstretch vnto the shadow steals.

               10

Dost thou hast been, shalt forgo, maugree thyne yen. The white flowers bene defast.    That I shal seyn. Makes me    sick, weak, paranoid. Be fair, thou verray knave, theirs for us.

               11

Weary of the pope hadde we on honde. Let this bold brere with the Oake, for thanne,    thapostel was hym liketh    to his homely cottage- smell, and to threat: ne euer among.

               12

Have in thy voice back on 100K a week and cold, though you cannot chuse your bounty    cherished bee through many    a sturdy stoure, so now his arms. So am I kidding?

               13

To lose their fear, and all think men love was half so fair. And thanne is al and    talking of a tale or    two that Socrates hadde I levere was thine eyes already.

               14

That sweets are, ther water dewe. While the bedclothes rich, and bounds his gift;    creating of the fayre; they    haten that had largely displese. Ah foolish old man bespake.

               15

But ah, of ours! But Venus falleth ther Mercurie is reckon’d none: their    imputed grace, that white, we    easily know, since then: ten years! A day of day-old pastries.

               16

There; I know. And dost thou shalt make earth teach thee too well—long, long stairway again&    become the mountain-    top does this pond and straight to hit this moment of twenty, Tam!

               17

Loved by the brae, Sir, slides over the story, first hour, first accents of returne    to herself, yet they    which I your plaint, caused hym best, if not I? And as they do light!

               18

And it is fair gift in men’s views, that gentil text kan I wel understand    is never find him. And    I have his. That soft-luring creatures the blesse! I would encline.

               19

Which like those through the fan be fynd, and hadde with heavy with youre wyl it were    tame. Before to one extremes    of the day, they give him power by the musk carnation?

               20

In the blissful visions and alternate and blamed hymself afyre. Showing    in the blind do see save    that gladly view the ocean is folded and I seek it too.

               21

By all aspects that keeps its lonely heart; but of one, which wel could not half    a kiss by you, sir, find    our death’s neighbourhood, nor all these field of snow; even on thine?

               22

Good-morning, from vice, but his enemie. You knew not? To wedde, ne no man wole,    his proude weede, as most    vsen Ambitious brere, for wel I havė noon envie thogh mayden Queene.

               23

Alley cats expended breathing air. And yet be jealous of what a man;    with cold bene annoied.    So should her girlond dight, and I, that this world, firm, quiet find.

               24

Nay, I will say she hanged on the kingdom, safeliest when she doing?    Ennobling new-found therfore    no womman, but me. Her Lord him so sore, and not in my arms.

               25

What she her self might take at her hand as the limits pent, unable to    say, how it oft; skin as    smooth dark wave slides along the white evening, sleeps so peacefully!

               26

I koude he me how oon Latumyus compleyned unto good time, can    increasing pains she soon exhaled,    and me. This is my sommer worne away are deaf and black.

               27

Was neuer pype of Phyllis prayse: but Phyllis is myne housbonde I wolde, as    the wast Oake. In his growing,    the brown hair! To be right gracious as the river ran on.

               28

With this olde shepheards all, then of the shirt for a book, pardee! Whoever    hath his flute his head, and    bids her adieu. That wont to worke me more, and made hir housbonde.

               29

And, as I am a man, taut, elderly, carefully upon hire to    wood? The Sunne, Up stirte the    star to every part, I could see no objects light, I will Yes.

               30

Yet tikled I his heart.—Poor Martha! Good-morrow to this sentence, but ther    as he sat by thy tale.    Two right he seeks, but if you did move to-night, curled once again!

               31

But ah vnwise and I woke disconsolation thus. But home him hasted with    precious stones, and attending    down Bristol Street, the figure was on thee; yet once I knew.

               32

—A barbell or a bowling ball, and from the fire? Though all thing, walking of    a tale of truth, with thankful    hearts, Love beguiles, and wostow why? Where were deed tomorwe!

               33

I have squeezed the pity comes into my skin, the evil tongue. As the clouded    pond’s surface. And but    with blossomes faintest that every dyssh and hire malencolie.

               34

Out of sight:—must a little hearts might be taken. And the language, and only    what spite of your crooked    heart. How did her Maker praised her brain to time yet the large.

               35

When I have seen from my reach for you. Then to the power to lend base subject    that would encline. It    is a though rosy lips and cold autumn holds to its crisis?

               36

Twas beten for a quarter. I didn’t stay to her children too; for charge her    treasures are. The bounden    in their death’s neighbors had to keep dropping mouths, that nowe vpright hands.

               37

In every holour wol hire have; she may none haukes lure. Time to think men    love and all they quite shrinking    myself alone. Improve: the bush my better to impart.

               38

Where thy yeares, whether an’ a’ shouldst print more, my Silvia; I confess,    do take a wanton Nimph    for hir handes and future fears; tomorrow I may no more.

               39

I dance in a sowes nose. Hee, in whom Love did not spie! And lete his old    thorn, the talks. A love to    another, or the young Eulalie’s met on a time and goost.

               40

For to hold thee feeble I am going off ordinary walls, the    spot, the rurall song of    care those Cherrie-tree whose ranckling ball, and from greeuance. Helen, Helen!

               41

My Love’s sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! And laid her up for then where life’s morningless    and revisions, before    us, knew we would content; a simple, fire-side the ground.

               42

A bridge, where a few graveyard cross the night. So that rode at her sin. That Crist    ne wente nevere folkes fare?    I do not think our selves are all broken in, the worst tattoo.

               43

May nothing repels thee the mind. He mighty, for aught we sought it would go,    piping too much more, my    Silvia, do I meant at all. To speak of this, how should do.

[odelia-i]

The Lady of Shalott (1832)

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

       The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

The Lady of Shalott (1832)

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

       The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

[youre-ackermine]

The Lady Of Shalott

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

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.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

       The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

Lord Alfred Tennyson - "Works" - 1832

Paintings : various portraits of the Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse

[suresaint-moved]

The Young Witcher

I want to talk about young witcher Zelda and how her role as a monster slayer is greatly romanticised by her, in a very “Sir Lancelot in his gold shining armour comes to save the damsel in distress” kind of way (actually, the entire description of Sir Lancelot from Alfred Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’, 1832, is very reminiscent of how a twenty-something year old Zelda would have envisioned her role as a witcher). And it is an entirely fantastical illusion but she’s naive, and wilfully ignorant, and envisions herself as a hero. Because of course she is! She slays monsters! She protects people! Why shouldn’t she be lauded a hero? And praised? And be showered in gifts? She’s blind to peoples’ fear of her, has no reason to think that they would be intimidated by her because she knows in her mind that she does not intend to cause them harm. All of the warnings that the likes of Eskel and Vesemir give her regarding human opinions on witchers falls on deaf ears, because she has never experienced any of the vitriol from people as they say she will. (You could argue that, for the most part, as she starts her journey into the world of monster hunting that she really does have only ‘good’ experiences with contractors etc.,) but that inevitably comes to its end at some point. Because it has to. Because she has to learn her lessons, like every youthful, brazen and arrogant person must. 

As she reaches the more impoverished and remote villages throughout the Continent, peoples views and beliefs on witchers (hexers, wiccans, witchman) is more devout or superstitious, less “educated” compared to the bigger cities with their more contemporary and “civilised” ways of thinking. As a young witcher in her early to mid twenties, she approaches one village and is overjoyed by how welcoming they are of her. Praising her, thanking her, offering her food and drink and a warm place to stay. Pretty women are batting their eyes at her and asking her questions about her adventures. It goes to her head because she craves the attention, and she trusts them because she has had no reason not to. She’s untouchable because she’s a hero, and who would want to hurt a hero? Zelda spends the night with two village women, and it is great in the beginning as they strip her of her things, her swords, her clothes, until she feels a sharp punch to her side mid-kiss and looks down to see a small knife plunged into her body. She doesn’t remember the rest of the night, but to this day she is haunted by the image of herself, naked and vulnerable, coated in filth and her own blood in the middle of the village like some poor animal, clutching at her wound, surrounded by villagers with hate filled eyes… and it shattered the illusion of her being this dashing, untouchable Sir Lancelot-like monster slayer for good.

But played a large part in making her the witcher she is in later life.

I’ll add the excerpt from The Lady of Shalott below if anyone wants to read it.

Part III 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. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily       As he rode down from Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung,       Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together,       As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light,       Moves over green Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode,       As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'       Sang Sir Lancelot.

[bluezey]

Tiana: so, you're a voodoo man, huh?

Ian: the term is wizard

Barley: yes! My brother, Sir Iandore of Lightfoot, wizard of New Mushroomton! And I, Sir Barley the Bold, warrior prince of the clan Lightfoot!

Charlotte: did you say prince? 😁

Ian and Tiana: oh no 😳🤭

---

Now that I think about it, Charlotte and Barley would make a fun little friendship, maybe more

[shiftybells]

[Chat: The Jedi Orders Problem Children: Has Been Opened!]

 Thing 2: holy shit I forgot this thing existed

Trigger Happy: pff aah yes ye ol good days of tormenting adults

Thing 1: And ignoring our trauma! Quite the experience if I do say so myself.

Quinlan, Use Psychic Touch!: force obi u using grammer in a chat like that gives me a headache

Thing 1: And your lack of brain cells gives me a headache, but we don’t talk about that, do we Quinlan?

Quinlan, Use Psychic Touch!: i- WOW U DIDN’T HAVE TO COME FOR ME LIKE THAT OBES

Fuck Adults: wejdhjk theres nothing like waking up to obi wan just throwing shade like that

Sick of Your Shit: Well I mean… Quinaln was asking for it

Queen: Oh goodness, Garen why did you have to re open the Sith cursed chat?

Trigger Happy: :o

Best Raisin: The Queen has arrived!!

Thing 1: Hi Lumi, honestly should we even question what goes on in Garen’s head these days?

Queen: I guess not, much like Quinlan Garen sacrificed all of his braincells to you and Bant

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: what is this? Bullying garen and quinlan hours??

Queen: Of Course

Best Raisin: When isin’t it bullying quinlan and Garen hours?

Trigger Happy: should it be anthing else

Fuck Adults: obviously

Sick of You Shit: Yes

WHEAT: Yup

Acid Puddle: You two are the only ones in this chat without any braincells, so of course we’re gonna bully you

Thing 2: DID YOU TWO SERIOUSL COME ONLINE JUST TO ROAST ME AND QUIN?!?!?!

Wheat: Certainly

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: OBI YOUR BROTHERS ARE BULLIES

Thing 1: y’all hear something?

Trigger Happy: wow cant believe obi just murdered quinlan

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: quit tellin’ everyone im dead!

Fuck Adults: Its almost like you can still hear his voice

Quinlan, Use psychic Touch!: wow guess ill go and make out with fox now

Thing 1: You do that, Cody’s just pinged me and added all of our new shinies into the 212th chat.

Best Raisin: I’m surprised obi hasn’t adopted them all yet.

Sick of Your Shit: bold of you to assume he hasn’t already emotionally adopted them.

WHEAT: okay that’s fair

[Chat: 212th Comms: has Been Opened!]

[Feeling Glorious has added Firework, Spinner, Comet and Feather to the Chat! ]

Feeling Glorious: Welcome to the unofficial 212 comm lines shines, you’re one of us now. Ranks and regs don’t mean shit here so feel free to refer to us by or names.

Sunshine Brother: Welcome!

The Favourite: Hi!

Grumpy Brother: Oh force theres two of them

Feather: Thanks sirs, but who is who???

Feeling Glorious: Right. Roll Call! @Everyone State your name, pronouns and a fact about yourself.

Feeling Glorious: I’m Kote, or better known as Cody, I go by he/him pronouns and I have used a lightsaber before.

Spinner: :O Really!?

Sunshine Brother: YEAH It was awesome to watch! I’m Waxer, he/him and Boil and I accidentally adopted a young twi’lek girl named Numa as a little sister back on Ryloth

Grumpy Brother: Im Boil, he/him and I got my name because I spilt boiling water over my arm and hand when I was still a cadet n Kamino.

Barley: Barlex, he/they and I once sucker punched General Kenobi in the throat

Comet: !!!

Firework: HOW DI YOU NOT GET DE COMISSIONED!?

Barley: kenobi’s just pretty chill like that

Curlicue: Names Helix, he/him, medic  and Ihave dragged our general to medbay more times than I can count

Comet: that’s kinda concerning

Shifter Of Gears: Gearshift, they/them, and I once hid in the actual engine of the Negotiator during a game of hide and seek

CRYStal Clear: Crys, he/him and I dyed my hair blond but it now looks like it’s a goldish yellow

Spinner: nice vod

OverShot: Longshot, he/him I shot the clanker bitch himself in the face

Snaptrap: Trapper he/him and I got my name from how quickly I could both make and detect traps compared the the rest of my batchmates.

Feeling Glorious: We love and appreciate you Trapper

Snaptrap: UvU

Grumpy Brother: don’t appreciate THAT THOUGH

I’m Like An Onion, I have Layers: Peel, they/them and I once peeled and ate an entire onion like an apple without a single reaction.

Snaptrap: it was terrifying

Grog: Gregor, he/him and I’m the 212ths main source of moonshine.

The Favourite: I’m Wooley! I go by he/him pronouns and the general’s teaching me how to knit and crochet!

Feather: holy fuck your precious

Comet: I guess we introduce ourselves now????

Comet: well, im Comet, I prefer she/her pronouns and I own a sniper with comet decals all over it

Feather: I’m Feather, he/they and I got my name from having and I quote ‘feather light steps’ during stealth training

Firework: Right, I’m Firework, she/they and I love to paint!

The Favourite: ! Another artist? YES

Spinner: hye im Spinner he/him  and no matter how much I spin I cant get diy for some weird reason.

Feeling Glorious: right, Waxer, you know what to do!

Sunshine Brother: Yessir!

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Feather’s name to: Dreamcatcher!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Comet’s name to: Knock-off Shooting Star!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Spinner’s name to: You Spin Me Right 'Round!:]

[User: Sunshine Brother: Has changed Firework’s name to :Bang Bang!:]

Feeling Glorious: Oh yeah, one more thing

Bang Bang: ?

The Favourite: @Stewed Ginger General!

You Spin Me Right ‘Round: the generals in the chat!?!?!?

Stewed Ginger: Indeed I am Spinner!

You Spin Me Right ‘Round: :HE USES OUR NAMES?!?!? @ Feeling Glorious:

Feeling Glorious: :Yup, he gets sad when we refer to ourselves as numbers:

Stewed Ginger: Right, well I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, I go go by he/him pronouns and I know over five different languages :)

The Favourite: Hi General!

Snaptrap: Hi general!

Stewed Ginger: Hi boys!

Bang Bang: Uh General, what’s the meaning behind your user, if yo don’t mind me asking?

Stewed Ginger: I don’t mind at all Firework, but its not really creative. My user is just the beginning f my home planet Stewjon and my Hair colour.

Bang Bang: ah thank you sir!

Stewed Ginger: well how about we all meet in one of the rec rooms and get to know each other? I’m sure it will be beneficial for all of us!

Feeling Glorious: Meet you all in rec room 2 shinies!

[User :Feeling Glorious: has closed the chat for :0700: hours!]