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.