Classic Poem

Maybe it was the Sunday fare;
Maybe the Sunday sermon;
Perhaps 't was but a plain nightmare —
I never can determine.

I dreamed I was an errant shade,
With other shadows hieing
Along a road whose downward grade
Was simply terrifying.

Before them all, with haughty head,
One held the chief position,
Whose lofty mien and stately tread
Proclaimed his high condition.

While in the eyes of all the rest
Sat trouble and dejection,
His gold-rimmed orbs alone expressed
Approving introspection.

We reached a river and embarked
Upon a galley gloomy;
The seat the stranger took, I marked,
Was elegant and roomy.

When Charon came to punch his fare,
The awe-inspiring spectre
Transfixed him with a stony stare,
And seemed to say, " Director. "

We reached at length the heavenly gate —
The press had free admissions —
The common herd was forced to wait
And loaded with conditions.

The stranger handed in his card,
While round the door we hovered,
And to the high celestial guard
His shapely head uncovered.

I saw St. Peter smile and bow,
Urbane and deferential;
The stranger's greeting was somehow
A shade more consequential.

" Angel! " the saintly tyler cried,
A page straightway appearing.
(I don't remember that I tried
To wholly keep from hearing.)

I caught the words " Orchestra chair —
Be sure you get the right one —
See the harp-tuner; and take care
The halo is a bright one.

" Look lively, too, " St. Peter said,
" The gentleman is waiting. "
" Please register " — he bent his head,
The great book indicating.

The stranger wrote. I read the scrawl
The sacred page engrossed on;
The name was nought, the place was all, —
" J. Winthrop Wiggins, Boston. "