The Porter

I am the porter of a little door,
A swinging wicket in the walls of sky.
I open and I close a light-latched door.

There was an ark whose sides were precious wood
And gold archangels guarded its pale store
Of wind-blown manna from the desert days.
There was a bush which stood a flame of flowers
And its approach was barefoot sanctity,
Nor Moses dared its red apocalypse.
There was an angel rolled a stone away
And Roman guards swooned in their futile steel
Before a tomb that April filled with morn
When Peter, John, and Magdalen drew nigh
And Peter entered, almost overbold.
There was a womb that bowered Sharon's Rose
And One alone that garden ever knew,
Whose only gate none touched, not even God
Who trod that close, God walking there alone.

But I am porter of a little door
No higher than a man's reach in the sky.
Peter he keeps the ponderous gates of heaven,
And right good toll he takes at that turnstile.
I let you in for nothing but for love
At the little door in the little house of God.
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