From the great deep to the great deep he goes.

And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge: The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfills himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountains by the winter sea.

I found Him in the shining of the stars, I mark’d Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not.

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

But, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all. For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat.

It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.