In Portugal, 1912

And will they cast the altars down, Scatter the chalice, crush the bread? In field, in village, and in town He hides an unregarded head;

Waits in the corn-lands far and near, Bright in His sun, dark in His frost, Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear-- Lonely unconsecrated Host.

In ambush at the merry board The Victim lurks unsacrificed; The mill conceals the harvest's Lord, The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ.