A woman’s spirit, now dead, slips back to the house where her friends still gather. She finds them feasting under orange boughs, passing wine, laughing, full of affection for one another. As she listens to their talk, they make eager plans for tomorrow—hiking along the coast, reaching a high nest-like lookout—and insist that the next day will be just like today, only sweeter. They are steeped in hope and noise, but they never mention her or the life that included her. She, “of yesterday,” is already forgotten among the living. Shivering with a grief no one can feel, she leaves without disturbing a single cloth, realizing she has become no more lasting than the memory of a one-day guest. The poem creates a quiet, heart-sinking loneliness, the particular ache of watching the world continue warmly without you.
At Home — Summary
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.