A New Pilgrimage, XXXV

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 ?