K
King Arthur
Guest
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest-if indeed I go--
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt--
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
Mortal words I uttered last, seem now distant and unheard.
Whilst on foreign fields heroes fall, a darkest foe
unfurls in lands so close to heart.
Such foe wields no stick nor stone, not club nor sword.
He cleaves not limb nor smites no helm, yet, such fury and
wrath wreak havoc not behest by God himself in his hour of anger.
The wound from word may never heal, it cannot kill, such battle is not noble.
Sheath thy anger lest thy would be known for that which thou art not.
All glory shall come from courage and valour where deeds of many
shine brighter than those of few.
In times of darkness gaze only upon the eternal light of our fair Camelot.
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest-if indeed I go--
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt--
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
Mortal words I uttered last, seem now distant and unheard.
Whilst on foreign fields heroes fall, a darkest foe
unfurls in lands so close to heart.
Such foe wields no stick nor stone, not club nor sword.
He cleaves not limb nor smites no helm, yet, such fury and
wrath wreak havoc not behest by God himself in his hour of anger.
The wound from word may never heal, it cannot kill, such battle is not noble.
Sheath thy anger lest thy would be known for that which thou art not.
All glory shall come from courage and valour where deeds of many
shine brighter than those of few.
In times of darkness gaze only upon the eternal light of our fair Camelot.
