Sarah Orne Jewett

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.