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Christina Georgina Rossetti - At Home
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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.
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