Today marks the anniversary of my catching a glimpse of Pope Francis as he made his way in procession through Central Park, so I thought this might be a suitable piece to post. I'm not sure where Papa Francisco would stand on Wilde as a person or a poet, but I dare say he would at least be more open and understanding than any of his predecessors.
| 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.' |
