A
true man would do right
Even
to his own hurt . . .
And
if it bespoke his death
Not
to save his own life
Then
that hurt, to his own skin
Was
no hurt, but very life itself.
And
in that inner meeting place
There
was, there, with it
No
lifting of the two-edged sword
From
the dark stone of offence
Without
his drinking of the wine
From
the Grail, the Sangraal, itself.
*
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