By George Sterling

Although there gleamed no altar-plate,
  Nor ghostly incense wandered up,
It was no common bread I ate,
  And heavenly wine was in the cup.

Like  one who marvels at the skies
  Nor sees the wonder of the sod,
I held her in accustomed eyes,
  Nor in the temple saw the god.

Long gone is she whom I would thank
  For what I took in discontent—
The bread I ate, the wine I drank,
  And knew not it was sacrament.

Our humble walls—were they a shrine?
  There was a Grail, sought by the great:
Perhaps my lips have touched it—mine,
  Who knowing, know too late.

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