The Loving Lance

(For Kathleen Raine, pt. II)

The wound, the way
Your wherewithal
To greet the driving blade

The rosen spade
That casts red rain
Upon the cup of gold

There where with all
Who meet with pain
And long one day foretold

For light arise
On downcast eyes
Seen through the minor fall

Our major lift
The sacred call
That sees through blood the ray

From gleaming thorn
Two way, its gift
Behind the fray unborn