"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,/You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,/And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,/And the dry stone no sound of water. Only/There is shadow under this red rock,/(Come in under the shadow of this red rock,/ And I will show you something different from either/Your shadow at morning striding behind you/Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;/I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
But in her web she still delights/ To weave the mirror's magic sights,/ For often through 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.
“ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we hadeverything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way”