Christina Rossetti: At Home

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 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.