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 splendor 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."