In occasione della Pasqua, vorrei farVi conoscere un aspetto do Oscar Wilde un po’ sconosciuto, il poeta religioso.
Questa poesia si intitola semplicemente Easter Day:
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: trumpets: trombe ; Dome: tempio
The people knelt upon the ground with awe: knelt: si inginocchiava; awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw, borne: necks. collo
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, robe: veste; foam: schiuma
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, swathered:
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
The people knelt upon the ground with awe: knelt: si inginocchiava; awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw, borne: necks. collo
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, robe: veste; foam: schiuma
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, swathered:
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.’
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’