One thing I know: they won't come marching in.
Not they, the laughing wild and raging throngs.
I've heard their joyful shouts and raucous songs,
More Bacchus than St. Paul, that bright mad din.
No—they'll come all at once, Chaos and Chance
Ecstatic to be freely loosed once more;
There'll be no stately entrance at the door,
Just one great pouring out of light and dance.
They'll come in colors never seen, with wings
Such as the angels never dreamed. They'll fill
Existence with conviction that the thrill
Of being, fully, makes us more than kings.
There's much I do not know of saints and sin,
But this I know: they won't come marching in.