The Fugitive

"Nous avons chassé ce Jésus Christ."--FRENCH PUBLICIST.

Yes, from the ingrate heart, the street Of garrulous tongue, the warm retreat Within the village and the town; Not from the lands where ripen brown A thousand thousand hills of wheat;

Not from the long Burgundian line, The Southward, sunward range of vine. Hunted, He never will escape The flesh, the blood, the sheaf, the grape, That feed His man--the bread, the wine.