I'll bite
>I stood again in my Cambric raiment; tarrying.
Good image, but there is no reason to use the phrase 'Cambric raiment, tarrying.' I guarantee you 9 out of 10 people will not know what this means off the cuff. It would be justified if the linguistic complexity served an end, but no- you're quite literally describing a man standing in the snow.
>Carnellian red glazed trough, alabaster sheens of snow.
'Carnelian red' is redundant. It's like you know the reader probably doesn't know what a Carnelian stone is, but just want to include that word for it's own sake. Again, of course snow is fucking 'alabaster.' What is so special about this snow that makes it not simply white, but 'alabaster?'
>Holes as Chasms, as my thrilling pain;
Ah, the unnecessary capitalisation. Figured, 'This is about where a great poet would capitalize a non-proper noun,' hey? I do like the image of a man standing over a chasm, taken hold of by some terrible kind of ecstasy.
>Nazi pits, filling -- full as the Tophet -- my fancy.
Ah, so we're at a concentration camp? Could you be any more explicit about it? 'Nazi pits' is about the stupidest sounding phrase I've ever come across. As if to allay your fears, you replace 'Hell' with 'Tophet'- like this is a test and you're nabbing extra credit for a surface level religious allusion.
I could keep going because your poem is full of ridiculous and unnatural sounding phrases that makes me think you're not at all interested in your subject, and even less in your your craft, than you are in your own self-assured genius. The star of this poem is you, and anyone not intimidated by your stiff ear will find the work of a rank amateur, with no restraint, expending their most effective imagery and language at the start before realising they have to finish this bloody thing. 'Ah, but I'll stick on a Dickinson line at the end! How scholarly of me!' Your contemporary, Wilde, also said the author's presence should not be visible in the text, but I can read you easier than an airport paperback. If both he and Milton were alive at the same time, and they happened to be friends, they would snicker at your poem while reading it aloud to each other in the drawing room over some fine brandy, toss it in the embers of the fireplace, and watch shit turn to ash.