When I was dead, my spirit turnedTo seek the much-frequented house:I passed the door, and saw my friendsFeasting 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 thier honest chat:Said one: "To-morrow we shall bePlod plod along the featureless sands,And coasting miles and miles of sea."Said one: "Before the turn of tideWe will achieve the eyrie-seat."Said one: "To-morrow shall be likeTo-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 castNo chill across the table-cloth;I, all-forgotten, shivered, sadTo 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 guestThat tarrieth but a day.

The work and its creator

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Creator: Christina Rossetti
Nationality / cultural background: English
Work / edition: Before 1894

Historical public-domain poem. Verse and line breaks retained.

In the source: At Home

Selected for the Brief on 6 Oct 2026. This date records our selection, rather than when the work was created.