Текст оригинала на английском языке
At Home from Church
THE lilacs lift in generous bloom Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers; Their fragrance fills the still old house Where left alone I count the hours. High in the apple-trees the bees Are humming, busy in the sun,-- An idle robin cries for rain But once or twice and then is done. The Sunday-morning quiet holds In heavy slumber all the street, While from the church, just out of sight Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet The organ's drone, the voices faint That sing the quaint long-meter hymn-- I somehow feel as if shut out From some mysterious temple, dim And beautiful with blue and red And golden lights from windows high, Where angels in the shadows stand And earth seems very near the sky. The day-dream fades--and so I try Again to catch the tune that brings No thought of temple nor of priest, But only of a voice that sings.
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