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.