AT HOME

by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

      HEN 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.

"At Home" is reprinted from Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress and Other Poems. Christina Rosetti. London: Macmillan 1879.

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