Christina Rossetti — At Home

When I was dead, my spirit turned          To seek the much-frequented house I passed the door, and saw my friends          Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine,         They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed,         For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat:         Said one: "To-morrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands,         And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide          We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one: "To-morrow shall be like         To-day, but much more sweet." "To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,          And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they, one and all,          While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon;         I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried;         I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast          No chill across the table-cloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad          To stay, and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room,          I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest         That tarrieth but a day.