Silence, beautiful voice.

A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.

Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

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

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.