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,

      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,

      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 salt wine with tears.'