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 yearsTo 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.'