And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
Silence, beautiful voice.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.