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.