Saturday, June 16, 2012

Enoch Powell: First Poems: X) Parsifal

X) Parsifal
            -Durch Mitlieid wissend,
            der reine Tor.

The wound is healed, the biting spear
Has softened into harmony,
And all that holy chivalry
Acclaim the saviour peer.

For now the horns begin to sound
The victory of Parsifal;
And never at that matchless call
Was heart not bound.

But mine it stabs, as stabs a knife,
Recalling hope that long had fled;
For all my wept and buried dead
That clarion calls to life.
A curse upon their victory!
Accurst the Grail! They lie, They lie;
Triumph and victory they cry,
Where victory cannot be.

For till a virgin bears a child
And miracles the Christ restore,
They can be young and pure no more
Whom suffering has defiled.

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