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.'