At Home from Church

The lilacs in the sunshine lift
      Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers
Whose fragrance fills the silent 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 stillness 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-metre 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 or of priest,
      But only of a voice that sings.

- Sarah Orne Jewett