And 't was red wine he drank with his

thirsty soul.

VII.

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,

A light shone round about the place;

The leper no longer crouched at his side,

But stood before him glorified,

Shining and tall and fair and straight

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful

Gate,

Himself the Gate whereby men can

Enter the temple of God in Man.

VIII.

His words were shed softer than leaves from

the pine,

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on

the brine,

That mingle their softness and quiet in

one

With the shaggy unrest they float down

upon;

And the voice that was calmer than silence

said,

"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;

Behold, it is here, this cup which thou

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;

This water His blood that died on the tree;

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need;

Not what we give, but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds

three,

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."