At Home

When I was dead, my spirit turnedTo seek the much-frequented house:I passed the door, and saw my friendsFeasting beneath the 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 bePlod plod along the featureless sandsAnd coasting miles and miles of sea."Said one: "Before the turn of tideWe will achieve the eyrie-seat."Said one: "To-morrow shall be likeTo-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 castNo chill across the tablecloth;I all-forgotten shivered, sadTo 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 guestThat tarrieth but a day.