My Stevens Poem

Of Heaven Considered as a Tomb

What word have you, interpreters, of men
Who in the tomb of heaven walk by night,
The darkened ghosts of our old comedy?
Do they believe they range the gusty gold,
With lanterns borne aloft to light the way,
Freemen of death, about and still about
To find whatever it is they seek? Of does
That burial, pillared up each day as porte
And spiritous passage into nothingness,
When the hose shall no more wnader, nor the light
Of the steadfast lanterns creep accross the dark?
Make hue among the dark comedians,
Halloo them in the topmost distances
For answer from their icy Elysee.

First thoughts: Interpreters of men are writers
Darkened ghosts of our old comedy. Old comedy, as we learned last fall in Shakespeare is comedy associated with the rebirth, the spring renewal of everything green.
Perhaps this line refers to deceased writers of the past or to the end of rebirth