The wounds of the world are good wounds, got in a hardy fight —
Therefore ’tis best to welcome or pilgrim or knight
Who limping comes on his quest, forspent or betrayed,
Whose breast is an aching thrust; and who will not be stayed.
The wounds of the world are strange wounds, yet there may be surcease
For him that after the conflict shall win to a little peace
Where the air is cool as lilies, along a darkling road,
And the hawthorn trees are bowed round the well that is given of God.
The wounds of the world are sure wounds. Therefore make ready thy soul
For this, that no glinting armour shall keep thine honour whole,
Make ready thy head for the dust, thy lips for the victor’s smile,
And thy dream for the blue of dusk that fringes Avilion isle.