III
Behold! the elixir for the weeping wound!
Is it that wine that Avallaunius poured
From the Red Cup when fair Titania swooned
Before the wrath of her insulted lord?
Is it the purple essence that distilled
From Jesu's side beneath the invoking spear?
Or that pale vase that Proserpina filled
From wells of her sad garden, cold and clear
And something overbitter and oversweet?
Or in the rout of Dionysus did
Some Bassarid prophesy in her holy heat
On such a draught as I for you have hid
In this the Graal of mine enchaunted shrine
To pour for you, o mystic maiden o' mine?
Is it that wine that Avallaunius poured
From the Red Cup when fair Titania swooned
Before the wrath of her insulted lord?
Is it the purple essence that distilled
From Jesu's side beneath the invoking spear?
Or that pale vase that Proserpina filled
From wells of her sad garden, cold and clear
And something overbitter and oversweet?
Or in the rout of Dionysus did
Some Bassarid prophesy in her holy heat
On such a draught as I for you have hid
In this the Graal of mine enchaunted shrine
To pour for you, o mystic maiden o' mine?
— 21 —
