This Book is written by Arthur Osborne
Where the mighty river flows
A bleak, grey prison-castle rose
Wherein a lady dwelt, they say,
On whom a lifelong curse there lay:
Not to look out, not to go free,
Only a shadow world to see, Reflected in a glass.
Daylong a tapestry she wove,
With fantasy but without love.
Thus did the wise ones typify
The life of man, whose days flow by
In a shadow world of mundane things,
Weaving his vain imaginings,
Watching the shadows pass.
Until she saw her love ride by…
Daring to look though she should die,
She rose, cast from her the pretence,
Leapt towards truth, with no defence
But love. The mirror cracked. A shiver
Split the grey walls. The broad river,
Sweeping all things along;
Now bore her on to her true lot
In many-towered Camelot,
To meet the loved one face to face
And, dead to self in mute embrace,
To find the two grown one through love
Beyond all joy for which she strove.
This was the ancient song.
The years flowed down upon the river,
And wisdom and all high endeavour,
Leaving a slum in Camelot.
A poet came and found the plot
And made a pretty tale of it.
Yet still the wisdom and the wit
Of the old sages shines in it.