Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.