Gypsy-Tasse mit frei wählbaren Namen

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  • Beschreibung

    Gemälde von John William Waterhouse, 1888 illustriert

    Die Dame von Shalott ist eine Ballade in vier Teilen von Alfred Tennyson. Dieses bekannte Gemälde des englischen Malers John William Waterhouse finden wir besonders schön. Es interpretiert die zweite Strophe des vierten Teils. Mystisch, romantisch und das perfekte Motiv für unseren hochwertigen Keramik-Tassen. Eine Gemälde voller Glanz. Für alle Gypsy Seelen da draußen: Die Tasse ist personalisierbar!

    Leichte Farbabweichungen durch unterschiedliche Monitor-Einstellungen und Lichtverhältnisse möglich.

    Weitere Produkte in der Kategorie: Magische Tassen

    Alle Produkte vom gleichen Künstler: John William Waterhouse

  • Zusätzliche Informationen farbige Tassen

    Zusätzliche Informationen farbige Tassen

    – Hochwertiger, umlaufender Druck
    – 100% Spülmaschinenfest (getestet auf 2.000 Spülmaschinengänge nach BS EN 12875-4)
    – Mikrowellengeeignet
    – Fassungsvermögen: 375ml
    – Maße: Höhe 96mm, Ø 80mm

  • Qualität Tassenrohlinge

    Qualität Tassenrohlinge

    Die Tassenrohlinge, die wir zum Drucken für unsere magischen Tassen verwenden, sind von hochwertiger Qualität.

    Wir bedrucken alle Tassen in unserer eigenen Produktion mit dem Sublimationsdruck. Die Tassenrohlinge kaufen wir über einen deutschen Großhändler ein. Wir verwenden für die Tassenrohlinge keine Ausschuss Ware oder B-Sortierungen. Fehlerhafte Drucke werden ebenfalls aussortiert.

    Aber auch diese Tassenrohlinge sind aus industrieller Produktion. Daher können leichte Fehler wie Schlieren in der Glasur, leichte Unebenheiten, kleine winzige Fusseln, winzige weiße Lackpunkte oder sehr geringfügige Einschlüsse in der Lackoberfläche vorhanden sein. Diese Fehler haben aber keine Auswirkungen auf die Haltbarkeit der Tasse und sind daher auch kein Rückgabe-Grund.

    Wir versuchen sehr genau zu beschrieben, was Sie bekommen.

    Was wir versenden:

    Was wir NICHT versenden:

    Weitere Details:
    Hier erfahren Sie mehr über die Qualität unserer Tassenrohlinge!

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  • The Lady of Shalott

    The Lady of Shalott

    TEIL I

    On either side the river lie
    Long fields of barley and of rye,
    That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
    And thro’ the fields the road runs by

    To many-tower’d Camelot;

    And up and down the people go,
    Gazing where the lilies blow
    Round an island there below,

    The island of Shalott.

    Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
    Little breezes dusk and shiver
    Thro’ the wave that runs forever
    By the islands in the river

    Flowing down to Camelot.

    Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
    Overlook a space of flowers,
    And the silent isle imbowers

    The Lady of Shalott.

    By the margin, willow-veil’d,
    Slide the heavy barges trail’d
    By slow horses;  and unhail’d
    The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d

    Skimming down to Camelot:

    But who hath seen her wave her hand?
    Or at the casement seen her stand?
    Or is she known in all the land,

    The Lady of Shalott?

    Only reapers, reaping early
    In among the bearded barley,
    Hear a song that echoes cheerly
    From the river winding clearly,

    Down to tower’d Camelot:

    And by the moon the reaper weary
    Piling sheaves in upland airy,
    Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairy

    Lady of Shalott.”


    There she weaves by night and day
    A magic web with colours gay.
    She has heard a whisper say,
    A curse is on her if she stay

    to look down to Camelot.

    She knows not what the curse may be,
    And so she weaveth steadily,
    And little other care hath she,

    The Lady of Shalott.

    And moving thro’ a mirror clear
    That hangs before her all the year,
    Shadows of the world appear.
    There she sees the highway near

    Winding down to Camelot:

    There the river eddy whirls,
    And there the surgy village-churls,
    And the red cloaks of market girls,

    pass onward from Shalott.

    Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
    An abbot on a an ambling pad,
    Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
    Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,

    Goes by to tower’d Camelot;

    And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
    The knights come riding two and two:
    She hath no loyal knight and true,

    The Lady of Shalott.

    But in her web she still delights
    To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
    For often thro’ 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.



    A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
    He rode between the barley-sheaves,
    The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
    And flamed upon the brazen greaves

    of bold Sir Lancelot.

    A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
    To a lady in his shield,
    That sparkled on the yellow field,

    Beside remote Shalott.

    The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
    Like to some branch of stars we see
    Hung in the golden Galaxy.
    The bridle bells rang merrily

    As he rode down to Camelot.

    And from his blazon’d baldric slung
    A mighty silver bugle hung
    And as re rode his armour rung

    Beside remote Shalott.

    All in the blue unclouded weather
    Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
    The helmet and the helmet-feather
    Burn’d like one burning flame together,

    As he rode down to Camelot.

    As often thro’ the purple night,
    Below the starry clusters bright,
    Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

    Moves over still Shalott.

    His broad clear brow in sunblight glow’d;
    On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
    From underneath his helmet flow’d
    His coal-black curls as on he rode

    as he rode down to Camelot.

    From the bank and from the river
    He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
    “Tirra, lira,” by the river

    sang Sir Lancelot.

    She left the web, she left the loom,
    She made three paces thro’ the room,
    She saw the water-lily bloom,
    She saw the helmet and the plume,

    She looked down to Camelot.

    Out flew the web and floated wide;
    The mirror crack’t from side to side;
    “The curse is come upon me,” cried

    The Lady of Shalott.


    In the stormy east-wind straining,
    The pale yellow woods were waning,
    The broad stream in his banks complaining,
    Heavily the low sky raining

    Over tower’d Camelot;

    Down she came and found a boat
    beneath a willow left afloat,
    And round about the prow she wrote

    The Lady of Shalott.

    And down the river’s dim expanse
    Like some bold seer in a trance,
    Seeing all his own mischance––
    With a glassy countenance

    Did she look to Camelot.

    And at the closing of the day
    She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
    The broad stream bore her far away,

    The Lady of Shalott.

    Lying, robed in snowy white
    That loosely flew to left and right––
    The leaves upon her falling light––
    Thro’ the noises of the night

    She floated down to Camelot:

    And as the boat-head wound along
    The willowy hills and fields among,
    They heard her singing her last song,

    The Lady of Shalott.

    Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
    Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
    Till her blood was frozen slowly,
    And her eyes were darken’d wholly,

    Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.

    For ere she reach’d upon the tide
    The first house by the water-side,
    Singing in her song she died,

    The Lady of Shalott.

    Under tower and balcony,
    By garden-wall and gallery,
    A gleaming shape she floated by,
    Dead-pale between the houses high,

    Silent into Camelot.

    Out upon the wharfs they came,
    Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
    And round the prow they read her name,

    The Lady of Shalott.