At last I kneel in Rome, the bourne, the goal Of what a multitude of laden hearts! No pilgrim of them all a wearier soul Brought ever here, no master of dark arts A spirit vexed with more discordant parts, No beggar a scrip barer of all dole; No son, alas, steps sorer with the darts Of that rebellious sorrow, his sin's toll. I kneel and make an offering of my care And folly, and hurt reason. Who would not In this fair city be the fool of prayer? Who would not kneel, if only for the lot Of being born again—a soul forgiven, Clothed in new childhood and the light of Heaven? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEJECTION: AN ODE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE HIS GRANGE, OR PRIVATE WEALTH by ROBERT HERRICK CATAWBA WINE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE LAST SUPPER by RAINER MARIA RILKE MIRANDA'S SUPPER (VIRGINIA, 1866) by ELINOR WYLIE SEPTEMBER: FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |