Oscar Wilde (1854–1900).
20. Easter Day
THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: | |
The people knelt upon the ground with awe: | |
And borne upon the necks of men I saw, | |
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. | |
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, | 5 |
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, | |
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: | |
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home. | |
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years | |
To One who wandered by a lonely sea, | 10 |
And sought in vain for any place of rest: | |
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest, | |
I, only I, must wander wearily, | |
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.” |