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Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

375

And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,

And dropping bitter tears against his brow

Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

380

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne

385

were parch'd with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

So like a shatter'd column lay the King;

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

Not like that Arthur, who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged,
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

390

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
Ah, my lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.

395

Such times have been not since the light that led

400

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

405

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: • The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

410

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 415 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

420

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 seëst 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.'

425

430

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

435

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

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But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, The King is gone.'
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb
The last hard footstep of that iron crag;

440

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Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,

He passes to be King among the dead,

And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again; but if he come no more

450

O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,

Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed

On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
They stood before his throne in silence, friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?'

455

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint

As from beyond the limit of the world,

Like the last echo born of a great cry,

Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice

460

Around a king returning from his wars.

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,

Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,

465

Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go,
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

THE SPLENDOR FALLS.

THE splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!

5

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. 303

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

ΙΟ

15

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

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Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

375

And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,

And dropping bitter tears against his brow

Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

380

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne -
were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;

Not like that Arthur, who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged,
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

385

390

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:

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Ah, my lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead,

395

When every morning brought a noble chance,

And every chance brought out a noble knight.

Such times have been not since the light that led

400

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

405

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

410

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