At Home (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 thier 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.

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