The Summerlands of Avalon cradle soft, the Legend of
a tragedy of love betrayed; a broken heart... a sleighted love.
Woven all about a tragic tale... The Lady of Shalott;
the Maid of Astolat... Elaine, who died for love of Lancelot.
Her love, so sadly unrequited; fading from a broken heart,
she lay down on her barge beset with lilies... soon, away to start
all down the glassy, reedy river towards the spires of Camelot;
singing her last, soft lament... the tragic Lady of Shalott.

And it is said, her melody... her last sad breath... away, slipped soft
far above the towering spires to whence, the skylarks wheel aloft.
Alone, unloved... this sweet young hope... no more now, than a sad refrain;
the merest shadow of this love, so cherished by the fair Elaine.
Gently gathered in the folding arms of the soft, western breeze;
lovingly borne back to earth to rustle in the Willow trees.
The Whispering Winds of Astolat... an echo of the arrogance
of men in matters of the heart; for which, there can be no defence.

For it is said, that when some girl besotted by soft, honeyed words
whispered by some smooth seducer; does believe that she has heard
some promise of true love... and so, to give herself to him... agrees;
then come The Whispering Winds of Astolat, soft-rustling in the leaves.
Or, if some crass Lothario intent on making conquests, new
decides to bed some older, wedded lady for an hour or so,
preying on the flattery he thinks that his attentions bring...
around the eaves, The Whispering Winds ot Astolat will sadly sing.

Take heed, when you decide to dally for a while... some interlude
of sweet distraction;  just be sure the words you use, do not delude
the lady into thinking that your words mean something they do not...
or, you too may be unmasked by The Whispering Winds of Astolat.
And, when the moon is floating high, and you romance a lady fair;
remember then... a broken heart can never fully be repaired.
Remember then, the Legend of The Whispering Winds of Astolat;
be sure you do not waken in her... another Lady of Shalott.

Oh, come again to Astolat!
  I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
  And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,
  Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
  The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,
  So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess—though you should guess—
  What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,
  The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think—if you should think—
  The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,
  I’d watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
  And smile,—if you should smile.

A nobler king had never breath--
  I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
  And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.

(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
  And all the armor, tagged and tied,
And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
  And bed a thing to kneel beside!)

The bravest one stood tall above
  The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love;
  I'd naught to do but think, at night.

The bravest man has littlest brains;
  That chalky fool from Astolat
With all her dying and her pains!--
  Thank God, I helped him over that.

I found him not unfair to see--
  I like a man with peppered hair!
And thus it came about. Ah, me,
  Tristram was busied otherwhere....

A nobler king had never breath--
  I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
  And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.