And Parsifal in tenderest grief drew near,
And sank in sorrow at the maiden’s feet,
And cried:  “O woe is me!  What have I done,
O sweetest, dearest, gentlest mother mine,
That I thy son shouldst bring thee to thy death? 
O blind I was, and wretched, and accurst
To wander off and leave thy tender love. 
O faithful, fondest, fairest of all mothers!”

And Parsifal was weak with pain and grief,
And gently did the maiden bend to him
And wreathe her arms confiding round his neck. 
And whisper to him:  “Since thou knowest grief,
Let me be comfort to thy sorrowing heart. 
And let thy bitter woe find sweet relief
In consolations of the tenderest love.”

But Parsifal:  “Yea, yea, I did forget
The mother that hath borne me in her love. 
And how much else have I forgotten now! 
What have I yet remembered to my good? 
A blindness seems to hold me in its thrall.”

Then said the maiden:  “Thou hast spoken true,
But full confession endeth sorrow’s pain,
And sadness brings its fuller gift of wisdom. 
Thy heart has learned its lesson of deep grief;
Now it should learn its lesson of sweet love,
Such love as burned in thine own father’s heart
Whene’er he held dear Heartsrue to his breast. 
Thy mother with her flaming heart of love
Gave thee her life,—­it throbs within thee now,—­
And thus she sends her blessing from above,
And gives to thee this sweetest kiss of love.”

And at the words she held him in her arms,
And pressed upon his lips a fervent kiss.

Then there was silence, deep and terrible,
As if the destiny of all the world
Hung in the balance of that fervent kiss. 
But still she held him in her clinging arms.... 
Then Parsifal, as if the kiss had stung
His being into horror of new pain,
Sprang up with anguish in his pallid face,—­
His hands held tight against his throbbing heart,
As if to stifle some great agony,—­
And at the last he cried with voice of pain: 
“Amfortas!  O Amfortas!  O Amfortas! 
I know it now!  The Spear-wound in thy side! 
It burns my heart!  It sears my very soul! 
O grief and horror in my being’s depth! 
O misery!  O anguish beyond words! 
The wound is bleeding here in mine own side!”

And as the maiden watched him in her fear,
He spake again in fierce and awful strain: 
“Nay, this is not the Spear-wound in my side! 
There let the life-blood flow itself to death! 
For this is fire and flame within my heart
That sways my senses in delirium,—­
The awful madness of tormenting love! 
Now do I see how all the world is stirred,
Tossed and convulsed, and often lost in shame
By the terrific passions of the heart!”