Richard Wilbur
ALTITUDES
Look up into the dome:
It
is
a great salon, a brilliant place,
Yet not too splendid for the race
Whom we imagine there, wholly at home
With the gold-rosetted white
Wainscot, the oval windows, and the fault–
Less figures of the painted vault.
Strolling, conversing in that precious light,
They chat no doubt of love,
The pleasant burden of their courtesy
Borne down at times to you and me
Where, in this dark, we stand and gaze above.
For all they cannot share,
All that the world cannot in fact afford,
Their lofty premises are floored
With the massed voices of continual prayer.
II
How far it is from here
To Emily Dickinson's father's house in America;
Think of her climbing a spiral stair
Up to the little cupola with its clear
