Classic Poem

A year ago . . . and I knew where
Heaven was reached by a single stair . . .
A darkened chamber with peacock walls
And seven candles at intervals
(Burning dim as if for eyes
Not yet grown used to Paradise)
Seven candles and toast and tea
And most unholy jollity.
And if perchance there seldom came
Sackcloth saints or saints of flame,
There was an angel with red-burnt hair
Who read us snatches from Baudelaire,
An angel in a cloudlike dress
The color of ashes or nothingness,
Whom but to see was to be at once
Wiser than truths, older than suns.

Of all the Heavens of which I've heard
This was the one my choice preferred.
But if this too, like all the rest,
Lies darkened now and dispossessed
I can but guess. I only know
I may not go, I may not go,
Through the slippery street and up the stair,
Clatter the door and enter there
To sit at her lovely feet and be
A waif of immortality.