To--day I was at Milan, in such thought
As pilgrims bring who at faith's threshold stand,
Still burdened with the sorrows they have brought,
And vexed with stranger tongues in a strange land.
And lo, this sign was given me. At my hand
Hung that mysterious supper Vinci wrought
With the sad twelve who were Christ's chosen band,
A type of vows and courage come to nought.
And, while I gazed, with a reproachful look
The bread was broken and the wine was poured,
And the disciples raised their hands and spoke,
Each asking ``Is it I? and I too? Lord!''
And there was answered them this mournful cry:
``All shall abandon me to--night.'' So I.