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Parsifal
Stolid he stands, nor knows he any thrill
Of grief for the sore-stricken king, the prey
Of torments dire, whose anguish to allay
No balsam serves, avails no healing skill.
Yet shall he bring redemption, e'en though still
For years the tempter lure his feet astray
And cheat his senses, ere the sacred day
Dawn of the sure fulfillment of God's will.
And now, with purpose clear, and vision purged
Of the last sense-illusion, he, by grace
Divine enlightened, and by pity urged,
Here stands, with God in rapt communion merged,
The grail's pure light effulgent in his face,
Healer and Saviour in the holy place.
