At Home

By Christina Rossetti

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 thier 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. 

 

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!