At Home

by Christina Rossetti

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 tablecloth;
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.