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On Viol and Flute

By Edmund W. Gosse
  
  
  

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HOLY THURSDAY.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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.