The end of a sentence, it seems, always achieves a kind of empahsis. Ends have this way gripping the reader, disposing him at last. The end of poems have gripped me lately, and this particular conclusion has gripped me since I read it last spring. Its potency has not changed; an action still occurs in me while I read.
And slowly answered 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.
Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If knowing God, they life not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest – if indeed I go –
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt –
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”