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