Enoch Powell: First Poems: XXX) Epithalamium

XXX) Epithalamium

Only the steel

That smote can heal;

Naught else will avail.

Where is the spear

That erst was here

In the shrine of the grail?

Bold was the foe

And sore our woe,

While saviour we had none,

The wrong to right

And again unite

The parted that longed to be one.

But saved from harm

Is the holy charm

That nevermore shall fail;

We close the lack,

We bring it back

To the shrine of the grail.