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.
But, if we can but read into it the hallowing radiance of a tremulous
hope, the poem, which as Ellen Alleyne she contributed to the Germ in
the days of her unregenerate energies, may be her requiem now: