At Home
When I was dead, my spirit turnedTo seek the much-frequented house:I passed the door, and saw my friendsFeasting 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 10Plod plod along the featureless sands,And 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. 20Their 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, 30Like the remembrance of a guestThat tarrieth but a day.