Poems by Oscar Wilde

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.’