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."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A most critical description of the Pope in all his splendour appearing to the people in Rome. The Pope is compared to a king, 'royal red'. However, Jesus Himself was not like that: He had no place to rest, bruised feet, drank cheap wine. I like the sonnet for its contrast.