Disclaimer: I am not Alfred, Lord Tennyson. That would mean my poetry would be far better.

The Lady speaks to me at night

While 'round my dreams her sorrows twine,

She mourns her ancient web's delight.

The Lady speaks to me at night,

To whisper her despair of light:

With phantom web she weaves moonshine

The Lady speaks to me at night.

While 'round my dreams her sorrows twine.