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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.