Emily Jane Pfeiffer

A Protest

This is the sabbath season of the year,
⁠     When summer silence falleth on the earth, —
     ⁠When truce hath come to husbandry and mirth,
To mower's scythe and wanton wood-notes clear.

The world is still, as if with holy fear,
⁠     And from its heart, through lily-bell and rose,
⁠     A stream of incense rises up, and flows
God wards with soft repinings for his ear.

And I would with the sabbath world take rest,
     ⁠Could breathe my life out with the summer's sigh;
Could lay it at God's feet if, dispossest,
⁠     My soul might feed new life as glad as high;
But of no dweller on this earth unblest, —
⁠     This fair, lost world, where mortals love and die!