Cherubim did not play herald to my presence
Nor did Peter greet me at the gates
These gates were not crafted out of golden ore, or silver
But creaked a little, as the rusty hinge
Was bit by bit persuaded to swing open
I did not lie on trains of silver cloud
Nor see a light upon my voyage hence
No flight nor host of angels eased transition
The very metamorphosis of state
Was ascended alone – to what?
A Hand hath guided me to land of spirits
But none of these dread spirits did me greet
Within, without these gates is little change
A man, abreast of none, with knarlēd stick
Striving sans hope within a lonely haunt.