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 wine salt with tears.'
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|The Ballad of Reading Gaol|
|Sonnet to Liberty|
|On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria|
|Libertatis Sacra Fames|
|The Garden Of Eros|
|Sonnet On Approaching Italy|
|Ave Maria Gratia Plena|
|Holy Week at Genoa|
|Urbs Sacra Aeterna|
|Sonnet on Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel|
|Oscar Wilde at amazon.co.uk|