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