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At Home

 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.

Poem by Christina Rossetti
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