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

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.