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Oscar Wilde (1854–1900).  Poems.  1881.

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.” 


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