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 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.
