On Viol and Flute | ||
133
HOLY THURSDAY.
On Holy Thursday, I, being all forlorn,Stood with the river winding at my feet,
And, where the swirling currents foam and beat,
I marked a little float of blossoms borne,
Bruised palm-leaves, and white lilies frayed and torn,
A broken chaplet of blanched roses sweet;
Then wandering up the stream, I went to meet
These gifts along the margin of the corn;
My way led on by headlands trimly shaved,
And shelving banks of vetch and rosemary,
Till I was stayed, and where a runnel laved
A little marish-plot, I turned—to see
A vision of Christ Himself, who, priestlike, waved
His wounded hands, and rose and came to me.
On Viol and Flute | ||