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“He felt that he had always been there, among the apple trees, watching for the woman in the tower to come to her window. Seasons may have passed, years may have grown green on the bough, then withered and fallen, but he would stand there and wait for a chance to keep a promise he had made.”
― Ava Zavora, Belle Noir: Tales of Love and Magic

“On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot.”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson

“Beside him, very close beside him, was a gorgeous woman. She had masses of deep auburn hair and great violet eyes. She was not plump, yet she gave the impression of soft, rounded curves and comfortable hollows. She had an air of Mona Lisa, the Lady of Shalott. All her movements were slow with a lazy, languid indolence”
― Winifred Watson, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

“With the blanket pulled up all the way to her chest, and the silence that still pervaded her every breath, she could definitely have been mistaken for a Victorian heroine; the Lily Maid, thought Marjan, on her way out of Camelot's reign.
Tennyson's poem had been a favorite of Marjan's when she was younger; she had learned it in high school in Tehran, during a particularly spirited semester of English literature.
Still, it took a minute for her to remember the story's fateful outcome: the Lady of Shalott had not made it alive out of the fabled kingdom; she had left on her death barge, floating on a dark river.”
― Marsha Mehran, Rosewater and Soda Bread

“He spun her world in silver-blue
Catching in the light the faintest hues
A maiden from a castle tall
Its towers spun of silk
But it could not stand against the winds
Without foundation laid more firm
And so the tide rushed forward
And took it far from view
Far, far away from view.

She bent before the boat
Laughter once in her eyes
Silenced in the morning still
And so she stepped into its web
An echo of another age
And weaving through the waters soft
Like the Lady of Shalott
Her Camelot in mind’s eye
Too lost in silver-turned shadow gray
To note the one who stood afar
Beside the willowy tree behind
Eyes cast in farther distance still
Not far from where she lay.

Her heart knew only the web that spun
And onward she rowed, longer she held.

Of silk, a flimsy dash of hope
Of silk, a hope dashed in its midst
Oh, its towers spun of silk.

It could not stand
It could not stand
For, it was not a rock.”
― Gina Marinello-Sweeney , Peter

“I don't care anymore. I'm sick of hiding in the shadows."
I am half sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott. The line flitted across Biddy's mind in Rowan's softest lilt, along with a flicker of firelight in the castle library, the sound of rain lashing outside, a cold draft through the half-open window that seemed to bring with it the promise of adventure. She had been perhaps six or seven, hearing the poem read to her for the first time. It had thrilled and spellbound her: the woman in the tower, longing for life and experience, the bold knight outside, the ebb and flow of the rhyme as relentless and inevitable as a river.”
― H.G. Parry, The Magician’s Daughter