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 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.