And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
  ’The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 240
  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, 245
  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 250
  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. 255
  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, 260
  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.’

  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 265
  Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
  That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
  Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
  With swarthy webs.  Long stood Sir Bedivere
  Revolving many memories, till the hull 270
  Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
  And on the mere the wailing died away.

* * * * * *

  Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long
  Had wink’d and threatened darkness, flared and fell: 
  At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,
  And waked with silence, grunted ‘Good!’ but we 55
  Sat rapt:  it was the tone with which he read—­
  Perhaps some modern touches here and there
  Redeem’d it from the charge of nothingness—­
  Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
  I know not:  but we sitting, as I said, 60
  The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
  The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: 
  Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
  ‘There now—­that’s nothing!’ drew a little back,
  And drove his heel into the smoulder’d log, 65
  That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: 
  And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem’d
  To sail with Arthur under looming shores,
  Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
  Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 70
  To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,