One of my favorite writers is the Dublin-born Oscar Wilde (1854-1900).  Poems (1881) — an anthology of poetry  — was his first published work.  Easter Day was poem number 20 in a collection of 62.  I thought I’d share this with you. 

Sláinte, 

h.f.t.g.

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,
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.’