On Easter Day, the speaker takes in a moment of dazzling ceremony: silver trumpets echo through a huge dome, and the Pope is carried above a kneeling crowd, robed in white and royal red, three golden crowns on his head. It’s an image of pure authority and light, almost godlike. But immediately the speaker’s heart pulls him back to a very different picture—a solitary, weary Christ walking beside a restless sea, searching for somewhere to rest and finding none. The memory rises painfully: “Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest. I, only I, must wander wearily, / And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.” The grand papal spectacle fades next to that quiet loneliness. A melancholy, ironic mood settles over the poem. The speaker seems to feel that all this earthly splendor misses the point, turning Easter into a hollow show when held against the homeless, suffering figure at its core.
Easter Day — Summary
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.'