---

Oscar Wilde - Rome Unvisited
Work rating: Medium

I.
              THE corn has turned from grey to red,
                Since first my spirit wandered forth
                From the drear cities of the north,
              And to Italia`s mountains fled.

              And here I set my face towards home,
                For all my pilgrimage is done,
                Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
              Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

              O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
                Upon the seven hills thy reign!                       


                O Mother without blot or stain,
              Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

              O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
                I lay this barren gift of song!
                For, ah! the way is steep and long
              That leads unto thy sacred street.

II.
              And yet what joy it were for me
                To turn my feet unto the south,
                And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
              To kneel again at Fiesole!                              


              And wandering through the tangled pines
                That break the gold of Arno`s stream,
                To see the purple mist and gleam
              Of morning on the Apennines.

              By many a vineyard-hidden home,
                Orchard, and olive-garden grey,
                Till from the drear Campagna`s way
              The seven hills bear up the dome!

III.
             
                A pilgrim from the northern seas—
                What joy for me to seek alone                         


                The wondrous Temple, and the throne
              Of Him who holds the awful keys!

              When, bright with purple and with gold,
                Come priest and holy Cardinal,
                And borne above the heads of all
              The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.

              O joy to see before I die
                The only God-anointed King,
                And hear the silver trumpets ring
              A triumph as He passes by!                              


              Or at the altar of the shrine
                Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
                And shows a God to human eyes
              Beneath the veil of bread and wine.

IV.
              

              For lo, what changes time can bring!
                The cycles of revolving years
                May free my heart from all its fears,—
              And teach my lips a song to sing.

              Before yon field of trembling gold
                Is garnered into dusty sheaves,                       


                Or ere the autumn`s scarlet leaves
              Flutter as birds adown the wold,

              I may have run the glorious race,
                And caught the torch while yet aflame,
                And called upon the holy name
              Of Him who now doth hide His face.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.